


The Lost Lady

by geniusincombatboots



Series: The Horse and The Swan [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Book and Movie AUish, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Temporary Amnesia, The Writer fudges some details from the source material
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 06:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23390110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geniusincombatboots/pseuds/geniusincombatboots
Summary: A strange lady with no memory of her life is found on the shores of the River Isen, and is brought to the Golden Halls of Meduseld for safekeeping. Slowly she begins to recover her memories, and finds herself falling in love. Complete!
Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel
Series: The Horse and The Swan [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707502
Comments: 17
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all, I know this sort of story has been written before, but the sudden necessity of becoming a shut in has left me with a lot of time to imagine fanfic ideas.  
> This story will sort of be more like a series of one shots as ideas come to me.  
> I hope you all enjoy!

She could smell the smoke before her eyes opened, and the smell of the smoke mixed with the rancid stench of death seemed to permeate her very soul. The pale, blue grey of the sky over her head stretched out into eternity over her, broken only a little by the voices and by the slow drizzle of rain splattering down. There were harsh male voices not far, but she heard them vaguely as if from a great distance, but they numbered many.

She turned onto her side, sitting slowly up, aware of a feeling of nausea in her stomach. There was something on her face, something wet. She lifted a shaking hand to the spot, and it came away red with blood, making her stomach turn with fear. A brain swell, then, she knew, from some trauma to her head, but she knew not what trauma had occurred. Nor did she know where she was, what river flowed there before her.

A man’s voice, closer called out some exclamation of wariness. He started toward her, a few other men at his heels, their hands all on their swords. The strange sense of a dream was coming over her. She scrambled to her feet, staggering and backing from the men, her hand held out to keep them at bay, her foot stumbled over the rocky ground, sending her back to the ground. Were they her attackers? She kicked her feet, trying to get back from the men as they approached, her hand, scraped from the fall held back out at them. The girl whimpered a little in pain.

The man, the leader, she assumed, said something in a low rolling language that she didn’t understand, his dark eyes flashing at her.

The girl shook her head gently, trying not to worsen the effects of her wounds. Her back and legs racked her with pain.

The man mirrored the image of her hand, his own seeming more as if he were interacting with some wild horse, to calm it in his slow advance. He asked another question that she did not understand.

“I do not understand, sir,” she said, her voice low, dizziness slurring her words.

“Who are you?” he tried again, in the common, Westron tongue.

Her lips parted to answer, but she faltered. The place where her name should have lived in her mind was blank, along with anything else, she felt as if she were looking into a ravine, in which her life’s story was hidden, “I don’t know…” she tried again to stand, but doubled over at a fresh wave of nausea as bile filled her mouth.

“Do you know how you came to be here?” The man asked, as if prodding her would bring back her memories, “What happened here?”

“Where am I?” she asked in reply.

“The banks of the River Isen, in the Kingdom of Rohan. Speak quickly, are you some spy of the Dark Lord?”

“No!” her fury at the an implication of nefarious purpose drowning her discomfort for a moment, “How dare you speak to me in such a way as this, and with such an accusation!” The exhaustion sweeping over her suddenly.

He smirked, “You know that, but not your own name?”

“I may not know my name, but I know my honor would not allow such defilement as you suggest, sir.”

“My Lord Eomer!” a voice called further down the bank of the river.

The man, a Lord Eomer, if they called him that, turned from her without another word or look and charged to where others of his men seemed to be pulling something from the water. Her vision, blurring as it was would not let her see what they were doing. Lord Eomer said something to another of his men, gesturing at her before he looked back at where she swayed, trying to keep her feet. The man, a captain, she assumed quickened his step toward her and the two Rorhirrim that seemed to stand guard. The captain bowed to her and quickly rose, “I am Eothain, a captain of this Eored.”

The girl wobbled, “Sir…”

“We will take you to Edoras,” he said, attempting to sound cordial, “these are dark times, and if you speak truly, and are only the victim of chance, our honor would not allow us to leave you here.”

“Am I a prisoner?” The slur was coming back into her voice.

“No,” Eothain reassured her, offering his arm to steady her, “You will ride with me, my lady. Are you able to ride?”

She could barely stand, but what other choice did she have? She nodded carefully watching him climb up onto the horse. She hesitated, glancing up at the saddle high above the ground, “I can try.”

Eothain shot a concerned glance at his lord, before reaching down to help her up into the saddle, another set of hands settling her on her way up.

Edoras was the capitol city of Rohan. She knew where that was, even as she did not know her own name or home. She would have to give them a name eventually. She knew a little of the people of Rohan, but she felt as if the stories of the Horse Lords, savage barbarian raiders of Rohan. She couldn’t remember who would have told her this story, but she had the impression that it was some womanly figure, though not quite maternal, and that she was being told that if she did not behave, the Horse Lords would ride into the city and steal her away and eat her.

The man pulled her to sit in front of him, his armored arms blocking her in on either side of her in case she slipped from the horse. He hesitated, looking down at her position on the horse, side saddle and ladylike, “My lady, we will be riding hard.”

She closed her eyes in irritation and she pulled one of her legs over the saddle to sit astride.

The ride over the plains was long and as Eothain had promised, the Eored rode hard through the grasslands. The girl who could not remember her name, tried to keep herself awake, even as her body begged her to let go of consciousness, and let the pain stop. Her thighs began to ache from the ride, and she tried to take account through the fog of her concussion, she tried to take account of her injuries, but her back hurt the most of any part of her.

When the city on the hill came into view, she could have cried from relief. The gates opened and the horses tore through the city to the keep, the heart of it.

A young blonde woman ran through the doors ahead of a group of guards. The woman called behind her to the guards as a few of the men took down the bundle they had found in the river, which appeared to take the shape of a man. A stretcher was brought as quickly as could by and the man, unconscious and pale was laid out on the stretcher. The lady spoke quickly to the Lord Eomer, and quickly followed the stretcher bearer. During this, Captain Eothain dismounted, and losing his support, the girl slid from the horse, into Eothain’s arms as he tried to help her stand. Her legs wouldn’t catch to support her weight, and the girl slid to the ground, on her hands and knees. The places where her body collided with the flagstones ached with abrasion. She didn’t try to stand or shift from her crouching position as her stomach churned again, trying to empty itself, and finding it empty, sent up acid. Vaguely, she was aware of the voices of the men, and their panic at her condition. The blur of her vision was darkening around the edges as her breath came out in ragged puffs, and she gasped for air, “Water, please…”

There were voices over her and a hand on her shoulder, a waterskin pressed to her lips. A higher female voice was scolding someone, and the girl couldn’t tell what language it was anymore. A cold hand was pulling her face up, and dark grey eyes were searching hers, “Can you stand?”

The girl couldn’t find words, her vision darkening even further.

Someone was standing her firmly up and picking her up from the ground.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her tongue heavy in her mouth.

If the man carrying her replied, she didn’t hear it, and she lost herself into darkness, going limp in the arms that bore her hence.

0x0x0

In the small infirmary room, Lady Baldgwyn, a kind-faced middle-aged matron tended to the girl’s wounds as she lay in a cot. The strange girl came in and out of wakefulness, her eyes opening halfway for a few moments. Lady Baldgwyn pressed an ice-cold cloth to the girl’s forehead gently, trying to clean the wound high on her forehead, humming comfortingly over the girl as she worked, stroking her hand over the tangled black mass of curly hair. “There now, dear,” she said each time the girl shifted to vomit, holding black hair back from the sick, and helping her to lie back, putting a fresh cold cloth against her forehead, and putting the other back in the cold water to refresh it, “You just rest now. I’ll bring you some broth down in a little bit, just rest.”

The Lady Baldgwyn closed the door quietly and turned in surprise to see Lord Eomer. She faltered a moment, “My lord.”

“The girl,” he nodded at the door, “how is she?”

“Her brain has some swelling, but with rest and enough cold compresses she should recover.”

“She is human?”

“Far as I can tell, my lord, just a young girl, but whatever did that to her gave her quite a beating. Her back is quite damaged, and there is a wound to one of her legs, though I think the head wound is the worst of it,” she absently smoothed her hand over the travel dress folded over her arm.

“Those are hers?” Eomer asked.

“Yes, my lord, fine things they are. I’ll take them to the laundry to see if they can be saved.”

“Good, thank you,” Eomer passed her to look in on his cousin.

Theodred lay unmoving on the cot. In a few days if he stabilized her would be moved to his own room, and if he did not, he would be moved to his grave. Eowyn looked up at her brother as the door opened, and she seemed to relax a little and went back to cleaning their cousin’s wounds as best she could.

“How fares he?”

“We will have to wait and see,” Eowyn said, looking up a moment, “If he makes it through the week, he will most likely recover. Who is the girl you brought back?”

Eomer shook his head, “I do not know, and neither it seems does she. She could be a spy of Saruman, or a doxy for all she would tell us.”

Eowyn shot her brother a look at the mention that the young woman could be a sex worker, “She is not in much better shape that Theodred, brother. Lady Baldgwyn said it was only by luck or a strong will that she could have still be conscious.”

“Or sorcery perhaps?”

Eowyn rolled her closed eyes, “did you see her clothes?”

“I did,” he tried to remember what she had been wearing, but mud and disarray had made that difficult.

“Did you notice anything about them?” Eowyn pressed, wrapping a bandage around Theodred’s forearm, waiting for an answer and not getting one. She chided, gently, teasing him, as she shook her golden head, “Men… That traveling dress she was wearing is very fine and cut in the Gondorian style.”

Eomer stooped next to her, “The last thing we need is the daughter of some Gondorian lord attacked while traveling our lands.”

“It would be worse if you had not brought her here.”

Eomer nodded slowly, considering. The girl had spoken with the eloquence of a high lady, and the way she had called him out seemed to carry the authority of a lady telling off a servant.

“What was he doing that far to the West?” Eowyn asked, “That wasn’t his patrol.”

“Bema alone knows,” Eomer said, “Unless that girl remembers.”


	2. Chapter 2

A few days of broth and water and cold head cloths and the girl could at least walk a small distance, with the help of a hand. There were a few rough abrasions on the side of her forehead, as if from a stone, or some strike, and lash-like wounds down her back and bruising along her spine, though the Nurse Baldgwyn seemed to think that she was healing well and fast.

The Lady Eowyn had brought her a walking stick to help her gain mobility, and the girl hated it just a bit. She hated the slow hobbling of her current pace as she regained her strength. Baldgwyn had insisted on her taking the fresh air and walks, telling her that she might as well give up on making a full recover if her intention was to stay in bed all day. The girl could almost feel the older woman holding back the words, ‘and feeling piteous.’

Lady Eowyn walked with her and had been kind enough to help her come up with a name, though the girl thought none of the Rohirrim names felt right. The girl spoke Sindarin well enough to suggest, Faurwen, the shore maiden, as a name for the time being. The entirety of her memories began on that shore where the Eored had found her.

Faurwen still stumbled from time to time but found in Lady Eowyn a steadfast companion.

“You grow stronger each day, Lady Faurwen,” Eowyn said on what must have been the fifth day she was in Edoras.

“I will repay your kin for your kindly hospitality,” Faurwen said softly, a smile on her pale golden face, “When I remember from whence, I come.” She tried not to grumble out the last words.

“We would not cast you out,” Lady Eowyn assured her, “and your memory loss is simply another injury. It will heal in time.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Faurwen had thought of this, but it was the first time she had voiced this concern. It had been almost a week and nothing concrete had come back to her. The beginnings of faces formed in her mind long before she would be able to put any names to it at all.

“Then…” Lady Eowyn hesitated, “When you are well enough to travel, and when it is safe, my Lord Brother will send inquiries to Gondor. I am certain your family will be looking for you.”

“Are you certain I am Gondorian?” Faurwen asked, even as she knew it felt right.

“Your accent sounds as if you must be from the south,” Eowyn supplied.

“A fair assessment.”

“Though if we get no answer, perhaps you will have to stay,” Eowyn’s lip twitched in the ghost of a smile, “I have always wanted a sister.”

Faurwen chuckled, “I am not sure Lord Eomer would like that so well.”

“Why do you say?”

Faurwen glanced back up at the Golden Hall Meduseld, “He seems to have enough on his hands.” That was true, but besides that she was not sure that Lord Eomer was at all pleased at her presence in his home. Her few interactions so far had left her with the impression of a stern man of the Mark, with a suspicious mind. Though in general, she found that the whole of the Court was in some gloom. She had not been brought before the King here to plead sanctuary, and no one had said anything to her about it at all.

Eowyn didn’t say anything, following her glance up to the hall where some men were gathering together, some looking out over the city. Lady Eowyn raised her hand in greeting to her Lord brother.

Faurwen turned her gaze from the men to the greatest enemy of her current life, the long trail of steps leading up to the Hall, determination etched into her features. She would beat the diabolical staircase today. She would not trip, slip, or fall this day.

Her knees buckled a little as Faurwen made her way up the stairs, Eowyn a step behind her, and ready to catch her, or give her stability if needed.

“I’m alright,” Faurwen said through a gritted smile, “I can manage it.”

At the halfway point, Faurwen slowed, taking a few deep breaths as she crossed the landing.

“You are doing well,” Lady Eowyn encouraged her.

“I just wish they would stop staring at me,” Faurwen panted, “I feel as if they are waiting for me to fail.” Sweat dripped down her back and Faurwen tried to pretend it was only the cold sun making her feel so overtired.

“Almost there,” Lady Eowyn said, gently.

Faurwen looked up, seeing that Lady Eowyn was right. Success was so close, only a few steps left. She lifted a shaking leg, and her supporting leg gave out, sending her forward onto the steps. 

“Damn,” Faurwen cursed.

Lady Eowyn stooped beside her, “You made it further than before,” she offered her hand to help Faurwen to her feet, “That is excellent progress.”

Faurwen smiled ruefully at her, “but not enough for my tastes.”

“You must not press yourself too hard too quickly, my lady, it could do more damage.”

The boot falls had been coming quick, but slowed on approach, and another pair of hands joined Lady Eowyn’s to help Faurwen to her feet. Faurwen flinched violently, crying out, shaking the hands off, a quick, hot tangle of fear overtook her. She pushed herself to sit on the steps, her breath frenzied as her eyes.

“My lady, are you well?” Lady Eowyn asked, concerned.

Faurwen shook a little, staring at the ground, hewn stone steps, not a pebbled shore.

“Did you- “

“The orcs… they came out of the woods by the river,” Faurwen’s voice was panicked, “They… everyone is dead…” she stood slowly, begging her legs to carry her, “I need to rest.” Why was that the memory that had resurfaced? Why could it not have been some happy childhood memory. Did she have any sisters, or brothers? Were her parents alive? Were they looking for her if they were?

Lord Eomer stood there a few steps ahead of her, offering her his arm for support, concern peeping out from his usual stony countenance.

“Pardon my outburst, Lord Eomer,” Faurwen’s voice was weak, and she accepted the arm he offered. The strength and stability in that arm was more a help to her than she wanted to admit.

“Will you take some food?” Lord Eomer asked, something in his eye giving her pause.

“She needs rest,” Lady Eowyn said, looking at her brother.

“No, I perhaps I shoud eat something,” Faurwen said gently.

“Have you seen the Great Hall?” Eomer asked, helping her up the rest of the steps and across the flagstones.

“No, though by my reckoning I should be able to give your lordship a full tour of the infirmary quarters,” Faurwen said, lightly.

A quick noise came from Lord Eomer, a mix between a grunt and a chuckle, “If you had come in merrier times, I would show you the Hall, but the Worm is there too oft for my liking.”

She slowed her walk by a bench, “May I?” she gestured with her walking stick. She sat slowly with some help, her knees protesting, and she set the walking stick against the bench beside, and looked down to examine the knees of her borrowed dress for damage, but was pleased by the sturdy linen garb as her hand gently brushed it clean. The lack of tears and holes seemed a piece of good luck at least. A few tendrils of her black hair had come free from her braid and were blowing in the strong wind as she tried to tuck them back behind her ears, before tilting her face back to feel the early spring sun on her face.

Lord Eomer sat beside her on the bench, and offered her an apple, some bread and ale, “It might not be much…”

“Thank you. Anything heartier than broth seems a feast to me at present,” Faurwen said, teasingly.

“I must get back,” Lady Eowyn said, gently, “Will you be alright?”

“I can find my way back, Lady Eowyn,” Faurwen smiled, “I am not an invalid.” As soon as the words left her lips, she was aware of the many possible retorts, “Well, not that much of an invalid. At some point, I shall have to manage on my own.”

Lady Eowyn smiled, before shooting her brother a look, and saying something in their language that sounded like a challenge and a scolding before she went inside the halls, out of the sun and wind.

Lord Eomer smirked in his lady sister’s passing, shaking his head a little.

“What did she say?” Faurwen asked.

“My sister worries herself too much with my manners,” Lord Eomer replied, looking at her, and seeing her aghast expression. He almost laughed, the corners of his mouth shifting a little, “Nothing so terrible as you imagine, my lady. She reminded me not to be rude, as you are a guest from our neighbors.”

Faurwen hid her face in the tankard of ale, but he noted her brows raise a little.

Lord Eomer gave her a long look, “Say what you think.”

She cleared her throat, “ah, I think perhaps rude may be a strong word.”

His eyes glinted with amusement, “Go on.”

Her shoulder bobbed a little, not sure what else to say, “I know you not well enough to say much as to your ways, my lord, though you do seem direct.”

“Ah,” he replied, “I suppose it would be better to hide my thoughts and feelings behind such pretty words and the fops and rakes of your people?”

“When you put it to me like that, I suppose not.”

He leaned forward a little, “If I spent so many of my thoughts on finding ways not to offend people, I would have less time to think on how to protect my people. This time is hardly well made for diplomacy,” he turned his eyes to look from her.

Faurwen studied him a moment while he wasn’t looking at her, but out over the city, and the plains and hills beyond it. He wasn’t unpleasant to look at by any means, but the hard edge to him was what held her back from calling his proud features handsome. The intense set of his eyes and brow was far from inviting.

“Perhaps,” she said finally, “I am the one that ought to be chided for my rudeness.

His eyes turned back to her, “How do you mean?”

“I never thanked you for saving my life,” she picked her bread into small pieces, keeping her eyes on her hands, “If you had not found me, and…” she cleared her throat again, “I would rather not imagine what could have befallen me.” She hardly wanted to imagine what already had, the small piece of her memory already threatening to haunt her sleeping hours.

“What happened?” Eomer’s voice was gentle as he asked, “There was more that came back to you just then.”

She looked up, “Just bits and pieces, really… Nothing beyond the ambush. I don’t know why it happened, or why I was even on the road.”

“Those beasts often need no reason to attack travelers,” Lord Eomer meant to be comforting, and assure her that the calamity was not of her making, “If you are Gondorian, it can make your way all the more dangerous.” His large hand took hers.

It startled her a little, and she looked down at his hand, making hers seem so small.

He faltered and removed his touch, “I apologize, my lady,” he almost looked embarrassed.

“Do not,” she said, “You are a good man,” she finished the last bite of bread, and picked up the apple, running her hand over the flesh of the fruit, “Do you mind if I keep this for later? Sometimes I find myself hungry between meals.”

“Help yourself,” Lord Eomer rose, offering her help to stand.

Faurwen rose awkwardly, not taking the help, wanting to do it herself, “Thank you, my lord,” she bowed her head.

“Need you help with the stairs to the infirmary?” he asked suddenly, “Those stairs are narrow.”

“If I did not know better, Lord Eomer, I might think you meant to spend more time in my company,” she teased, laughing a little.

“Would that be so terrible?” he asked, the corner of his mouth shifting a little again.

Faurwen blushed a little, “I can manage, my lord, but I thank you all the same.”

“Well, be careful. I ride out now.”

“On patrol?”

“Of a sort,” he allowed, “Orcs from Isengard have been testing our border again.”

“From Isengard?” she asked, horrified.

“I must prove this to Théoden King, before it is too late,” he took his helm from his squire, and tucking it under his arm.

“When will you return?”

He smirked a little at her, “Tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest. You will not have long to miss me, my lady.”

She shook her head at him, “Well keep yourself safe, my lord,” she bowed her head again, and turned from him before he could think to vex her further, or she said any of the things that came into her mind.

A flood of retorts and courtly flirtations swirled in her mind, and she wondered why she should have learned the words and gestures meant to intrigue and fluster a man to attention. Calculations and counter-calculations whirled in her mind without her bidding them on.

The oppressive darkness in the Great Hall gave her pause as she entered Meduseld. She hesitated a moment, hazarding a glance at the elderly King on his throne. There was no reason to the fear she felt, but it was on her and it was all consuming. She turned her eyes away quickly, and hurried down the side stairs, her hand against the wall, bracing her descent.

The shape of her door was blocked by a dark hunched shape, lurking in the corridor at the foot of the steps, his pale white face staring at her under black greasy hair. The new fear came over her as she looked at what she was sure was a ghost and she froze, staring back, wondering at the lost soul wandering the infirmary hall.

The man lurched toward her, his hands out supplication, “Ah, our mysterious guest,” he bowed, his voice chilling Faurwen through, “We have been wondering when you would present yourself to Théoden King to ask safe passage.”

Faurwen hesitated, “I apologize, my lord…”

He wasn’t a ghost then, but he must instead be the Worm Eomer had spoken of, and Faurwen understood the Lord’s disdain of this creature. It wasn’t just his physical person that disquieted her, but some sense of darkness seemed to roll off of him in waves of malice.

“I am Lord Grima Wormtongue, Théoden King’s Chief Advisor,” he said by way of introduction, stepping closer to her, and blocking her passage down the stairs.

“My Lord Grima, it has been a terrible oversight on my part,” she attempted an awkward curtsy.

“Of course, you are injured, and we will take that into account,” Wormtongue stiffed, leaning forward, “How long are you intending to stay here?”

The effect the Advisor meant was for her to be made uncomfortable, and he succeeded, though she struggled to not let that reflect in her features. She straightened her posture a little, and tilted her chin up, “I am not sure, my lord. I have been told that I am healing well, but it would seem that your roads are not safe.”

“They are safe to those without malicious intent in their hearts,” Wormtongue squinted, looking too hard at her features.

“I have no such mean to harm anyone.”

“And yet here you are,” Wormtongue all but licked his lips, and she knew he meant to do her some harm or other.

“Perhaps your assessments of your country are outdated. I am certain that someone in your exalted position would do well to take council from the Marshals of your Eored,” she raised her brow slightly, “as they seem to be the ones defending your lands.”

Wormtongue leaned even closer into her space, “Who have you been speaking to?” One of the doors behind him opened, saving her from having to answer him. He hadn’t noticed and took her silence as a challenge. His lips curled in a sneer, “Speak, you impudent- “

“There you are!” Baldgwyn called out cheerfully, a friendly voice in the corridor, “Oh, pardon me, my lord Grima,” she said as if she had not been aware of his presence, giving the impression that she was nothing more than a doddering old woman.

Wormtongue’s snarl rearranged as he turned to Baldgwyn, “Ah good woman, how has our guest been healing?”

“Well, for all the damage done, she must take her rest now. Your concern is so very admirable.”

“Pardon me, my lord,” Faurwen said politely, waiting for him to move before pressing herself close to the wall as her walking stick would allow to avoid touching him.

Baldgwyn helped Faurwen into the room, and curtsied again before closing the door firmly, and ushering the girl away from the keyhole, “Oh, my dear girl, you’re shaking.”

“That is the King’s advisor?” Faurwen asked, eying the sliver of light under the door for eavesdropping.

“That man is vile and dangerous, and you would do well to keep yourself clear of him,” Baldgwyn said with a low careful voice, “Mr. Nobody-from-nowhere,” she grumbled, helping Faurwen to sit on the edge of her bed, “In any other case, I would be impressed with such a man, working from nothing to have such a station, but for that one,” she shook her head.

Faurwen looked up, carefully regarding her caregiver’s face. She was kindly and a grandmotherly type, and she gently stroked a hand over Faurwen’s black hair, comforting her, and some few shreds of a memory came back, not images, but feelings, making her shiver.

“Oh child,” Baldgwyn said gently, embracing Faurwen’s head maternally to the broad expanse of her bosom, “It will be alright in the end, no night can last forever.”

Faurwen’s hands gripped to the woman’s arm, “I don’t know what to do, or why I’m so frightened.”

Baldgwyn released her head, still holding her face, “In time, you will heal, and frustrating as it is, there is little else to do. But try to steer clear of that beast.” There was a tremble of rageful fear in the woman’s voice.

“What- “  
“Now,” Baldgwyn interrupted her, “You take a rest. I must return to the Prince.”

“Is there any improvement?”

“He seems stable, but there is little else we can do, but tend him if anything happens,” Baldgwyn took a key from the ring on her belt and passed it to Faurwen, “You keep yourself secure, now.”

0x0x0

Lady Eowyn walked Faurwen to the long table set for dinner in the Great Hall, a single fire at the center of the hall casting long shadows up the walls. Faurwen sank gratefully to the wooden bench, shifting and trying to make herself comfortable. Something was prodding and pushing at the hem of her dress, and under her kirtle. Her eyes immediately shot up to the empty seat across from her, thinking some man was pushing her skirts with his foot. The prodding pushed at her knee over the skirts.

“Are you well, Lady Faurwen?” Lady Eowyn asked in her seat beside her.

Faurwen moved as quickly as she could bear to and looked under the table. A large set of brown eyes stared back at her out of a grey shaggy face, a ploy of making friends with a stranger before asking for food.

Faurwen’s face lit up at the sight of the dog, “Why, hello, you, handsome fellow!”

“Caelon!” Lady Éowyn scolded, “Down!”

“Don’t you dare!” Faurwen laughed, holding his large face in her hands, “Are you a good boy?” she paused before ducking her head sideways to look, “Yes, a boy,” she sat back up.

Lady Eowyn smiled, “My brother’s dog,” she explained, “Caelon usually does not take to strangers.”

“Oh, he can smell a soft touch, I’m sure,” Faurwen asked, “Are there more dogs here?”

“When the court is in session, yes,” Lady Eowyn was looking at her as if her companion was delightfully mad.

“Are you a fierce hound?” Faurwen asked the dog in a voice usually reserved for infants, as her hands fluffed and scratched his shaggy head, “Are you fierce, huh? Are you going to defend the Westfold?”

Caelon’s tongue lolled out of his mouth at the praise, clearly feeling it well earned.

“You like dogs, then,” Lady Eowyn said.

“Better than most men, I think,” Faurwen laughed, “They might be easier to train by any means.”

The young ladies giggled quietly until a familiar, and now unwanted voice cut their merriment short.

“What joy it brings to the heart of a man to hear the laughter of our young ladies,” Wormtongue mused, all but slinking to them, bowing his respects.

“My lord,” Faurwen inclined her head respectfully, silently noting the discomfort that came into Eowyn’s shoulders, her back straightening as Wormtongue crossed behind her.

“May I join you ladies?” Wormtongue asked, hardly waiting their assent before taking a seat by Eowyn. There was little polite option they had besides letting him sit, “What were you ladies discussing?”

Lady Eowyn fixed her eyes on the tray of meat, picking a cut, and carefully avoiding Wormtongue’s eyes.

“Lord Eomer’s dog,” Faurwen said politely, giving him a courtly smile.

Wormtongue’s face showed confusion until he heard the low growl under the table. He started back as Caelon moved toward him, the growl traveling with him. Faurwen’s fingers caught at the leather of his collar, pulling him back, and taking a slice of beef. She fed it to the good boy to calm and reward him. Caelon settled a little, but his hackles still stood.

“A vicious mongrel,” Wormtongue declared.

“He seems perfectly well behaved to me,” Faurwen disagreed, “Perhaps he smelled something, or was startled. They say that dogs are in possession of better senses than we.”

The doors of the hall slammed open, letting in a wild gust of wind. Faurwen’s fingers tightened on Caelon’s collar to keep him from running through the door, as her head tuned. The Eored had returned early, The Lord Third Marshal Eomer at the head of their number, passing his helm and sword off to his squire.

“Hail, Théoden King,” Lord Eomer called out into the space of the hall.

The king nodded slowly. He was being spoon fed by a guard. For not the first time Faurwen wondered how a man so old had been allowed to maintain his rule.

Lord Eomer turned to the ladies, his face, showing his irritation, “My lady, sister,” he offered his hand to her, eyeing Wormtongue a moment.

“My Lady Eowyn, I wondered if you would trade me seats. The fire at my back is becoming unbearable, I fear,” Faurwen said quickly as soon as Lady Eowyn was out of reach of Wormtongue, not knowing why she was throwing herself between a hunter and its target.

Lord Eomer gave her a look, before she edged her eyes at Wormtongue then back to Lady Eowyn.

A ghost of his smile touched the edges of Lord Eomer’s lips, “Take the seat if you are so unable to handle a little heat. You do not mind, do you, dear sister.” 

Lady Eowyn checked a grateful smile, “Of course, my lady Faurwen.”

“I am certain the Gondorian prefer their ladies cold and locked away in sitting rooms,” Eomer said as if it were a jab at her, and as if he found her wanting.

Faurwen shifted down the bench with some difficulty, blocking Wormtongue from the Lady Eowyn. She could feel Wormtongue glaring at her.

“You seem to need much attention, my lady,” he said, close to growling “Perhaps you have a mind to make yourself lady and master here.”

“I would not presume, my lord.”

“You already presume, with your very presence here.”

Lord Eomer narrowed his eyes, quietly leaving her, Wormtongue attention diverted by his irritation.

Faurwen turned her head to face Wormtongue straight on, watching Lord Eomer from the peripheral of her vision as he took some black thing from one of his men and tucking it under his arm. She pursed her lips at Wormtongue, “I would not presume to interfere, my lord. There is one Master here, by Grace, long may Théoden King rule, and his son after him.”

A shadow passed over Wormtongue’s face.

“You must eat something, my lady,”Lady Eowyn said, pulling the trey of food closer to her.

“Thank you, my lady,” Faurwen took some meat and vegetables, “Will you eat, my lord?”

“No, I am fickle of the company I keep,” Wormtongue stopped short, then turned his head catching sight of Lord Eomer by his uncle the King, showing the old man the helm with a white hand mark upon it.

Wormtongue leapt to his feet, “What a cheap trick, you play,” he snarled at her, “That he should use his doxy as a distraction.”

“My lord,” Faurwen said, her face the picture of innocence, “Why should Lord Eomer not speak with his uncle?”

Caelon’s hackles raised again, and with her hand still clinging to his collar, Faurwen turned her attention back to sharing her food with the dog to keep him from leaping at the man as he fled to the royal men, standing close by the king, and sinking into his seat as he spoke in low tones.

“He’ll not forget that,” Lady Eowyn warned.

“It is no fault of mine,” Faurwen said, “What wrong have I done?”

“It matters not what you might think, but if Lord Worm there thinks you have done him a disservice, he will find a way to bring you to heel.”

Lord Eomer dropped into a seat across from the ladies, a storm of rage on his features before Faurwen could make an answer to Lady Eowyn.

“You found more proof, my lord brother?” Lady Eowyn asked, pouring him some ale from a pitcher.

“It seems enough proof for all but they,” he tilted his head at his uncle and his advisor, “to know the truth of our concerns.” His voice came as a low storm over the sea, ready to break into destruction. He tore into a cut of meat, looking around, “Where did that…” he let out a low whistle, calling in Rohirric.

The collar was ripped from her fingers as Caelon charged the short distance from Faurwen’s feet and the sudden open air left her legs chilled.

Lord Eomer shot her a look of confusion.

Faurwen blushed a little, “I fed him from the table. I hope it wasn’t wrong to do so.”

“Anything good enough for us would be good enough for him,” Eomer sounded amused, slipping some food to Caelon, instructing him to sit first. “He is a loyal beast, and loyalty should be rewarded.”


	3. Chapter 3

Lady Eowyn had Faurwen moved to a small room in the guest wing of the hall. Her few borrowed possessions did not hardly fill the space, but the small room was lovely. A tapestry of men and horses draped over the far wall, and the window looked out on the mountains in the distance.

She recuperated a little quicker than might have been normal, and she started to walk more, and without the need of her cane, though she still carried it in case fatigue affected her muscles. She found herself able to walk in the city without an escort, and the denizens were friendly enough, though they may still have looked at her as a strange oddity, the foreign lady with black hair and blue eyes.

“You should be careful, walking though the marketplace alone, my lady,” Lord Eomer said, startling her with his sudden presence.

She smiled, curtsying quickly, “Is it so dangerous, my lord Eomer?”

“Incredibly so,” he said, a glint of jest in his dark eyes, “Cut-purses and thieves hide around every corner waiting to take advantage of a young lady alone. Observe,” he nodded to a group of children kicking a leather ball in the street, “of them you must promise to be wary.”

“I assume they are vicious murderers,” she smiled.

“That ball has killed twelve of my best men,” he said, his eyes glittering with mirth, “Better to stay clear of it.”

Faurwen’s face broke into an open smile, “In honesty, I was thinking that I might feel safer here than I have anywhere else. There seems to be an earnest contentment here.” She said nothing of the strange sense behind every smile she saw, like a plucked string, vibrating a sense of nervousness.

He nodded, “Though nothing here is as certain as it ought to be. We are further from the Dark Lord of Mordor, but we have our own devils to face.” He spoke with a vendor selling fruits and vegetables from a cart, speaking with the man in Rohirric before the man could bow. He wore home spun and his smiling eyes had lines around them from a happy life and the sun. The man replied in kind, holding out three apples to Lord Eomer, shaking his head a little. Eomer waved a hand and took a few silver coins from the purse on his belt and pressed them into the man’s hand before accepting the apples from him. The man bowed his head, calling words that sounded like praise. Lord Eomer passed her one of the apples, tucked another into his purse and took a bite from the last.

“Thank you, but, my lord, why are you ever ominous? Do you not ever think to look at the world and enjoy the golden light of its wonders?” Faurwen asked, knowing that it was a stupid question in these uncertain times.

He gave no answer, chewing the mouthful of apple, when he had finished, he said, “These are of the first apple harvest of the season.”

The sweet fruit was crisp when she bit into it, and she wondered if that was his best attempt at optimism, though she could see him thinking on the trials that were coming to bear on his country, though he seemed to not want to call her a simple minded fool.

“Have you been able to remember anything else?” Lord Eomer asked as ever foregoing preamble.

“I think that I lived by the sea,” she said, delicately wiping some juice from her chin with her fingertips, “I have a memory of laying in my bed at night and hearing the waves on the shore below,” she paused, “At least, I think it is a memory. The trouble is, I am not sure what I remember and what my mind is creating.” She took another, smaller bite from the apple, trying to be ladylike.

Lord Eomer slowed, his hand hovering at her elbow, “This way.”

“Where does this path lead?” she asked hesitant, her feet stopping at the steps down a different path. Walking with a man in public was one thing, but the notion of following him to some private setting raised alarms.

“The stables,” he said simply starting down the steps only glancing back to see that she needed no help, but saw her standing still, “What troubles you?”

“I…” she didn’t know how to voice her concern.

After a moment, Lord Eomer took a few steps toward her, “Are you in pain?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

She flushed, looking down, “Is it quite… appropriate…?”

Lord Eomer smirked, “I have no inappropriate intention, on my honor,” he held a hand out into the short distance toward her.

Faurwen accepted the hand nervously, starting down the short set of stairs after him.

“What do they teach you Gondorian ladies of the world?” he wondered aloud, almost sounding exasperated.

“To be wary of strange men taking us from the path,” she replied without thinking.

His frown hardened, “I apologize, my lady. I make you an oath that so long as I am able to be called to your aid, I will try to protect you from any danger.”

The stable doors were open, and the smell of large animals and straw filled the space. It was warm and dappled by golden sunlight coming in through the wood grates in the roof.

“Firefoot,” Eomer said, patting his horse’s neck, and taking a knife from his belt split the last apple in half and fed one half to his horse, a sturdy dark grey stallion dappled over with pale spots and with a pale grey and white face. Lord Eomer stopped in front of a grey horse, giving its neck a stoke, “Windfola is my sister’s horse, he is steadfast and full of heart.” Lord Eomer’s eyes scanned through the stalls, muttering under his breath before stopping in front of a stall, “This is Leofric,” he made a low clicking noise to call the horse, sandy brown with a pale mane, over. Lord Eomer took Faurwen’s hand gently, laying it palm up and putting the other half of the apple on his palm. The horse’s gentle, velvety lips brushed against her palm. Faurwen’s other hand, stroked the large animal’s cheek, she smiled, enjoying the warm animal, feeling comforting, even if she did not understand why Lord Eomer had brought her here. She could feel his eyes on her as Leofric moved his head to rub against her shoulder, and she studied the animal. Leofric seemed gentle enough, and steady.

“Which horse is Eowyn’s?” Lord Eomer asked her suddenly.

“Windfola.” Faurwen said slowly.

“And where is she stalled?”

“The fourth stall.”

“And Leofric has no rider now. If you have need of her, no one will notice for some time.”

“Lord Eomer- “

“No, I need you to listen to me. This is important,” he said quickly, “If something happens to me, if I am not here to protect Eowyn, to protect you, if something happens… if something happens to Theodred, if he dies- “

Faurwen took in a breath.

Lord Eomer grasped her shoulder, startling her a little again with his informality, “You must prepare to flee the city.”

“But the prince is healing well, there is no reason to- “

“You aren’t listening, Faurwen,” his hand squeezed on her shoulder, pausing, “If I am wrong, then there is nothing for you to do. But if I am right, and it comes to it, you need to get Eowyn out of the city, and keep each other safe.”

“Is Prince Theodred in such danger as that?”

“I pray that I am wrong, and that there is nothing to fear,” his hand slipped down her arm, resting at the crook of her arm, his hazel brown eyes searching hers a moment longer, “You hardly know me, but I need you to trust me.”

“Why not tell your men, or the guards?” Faurwen said, looking back at him, “I am not a warrior, my lord, how could I protect your sister?”

“If I am banished- “

“Whatever would you be banished for?!”

Lord Eomer pushed on, not stopping to answer her, “If Wormtongue has the King banish me from the realm, my men will follow me. The rest who stay will be forced to follow the law of the land. They might not be able to help you. The first chance Wormtongue sees, he will take complete power, and my sister is strong, but he will come for her. You know he will.”

Faurwen nodded, “I doubt, my lord, that Lady Eowyn would much care for the idea that she cannot protect herself.”

“She can do, and would do so well, but she would kill him.”

“So perhaps diplomacy might have a place after all?” Faurwen said, needing a moment to collect herself.

“I would rather have you run,” he said, his hand still on her arm.

“Whence should we go?”

“Anywhere you can. Go to the elves, hide in a cave, in a hole in the ground,” his intensity coming on as he leaned close to her, “Hide and I will come to find you as soon as I am able.”

“How would you find us?” she asked, not taking much stock in the oath.

“You are clever, my lady. I think you would find a way to bring me to you, if you so wished,” he said earnestly, “Swear to me you will do this. Do not give in to hesitation, at the first sign that things may turn poorly, get yourselves away.”

“I swear,” she said. She looked at him, “You know what just occurred to me?”

“What, my lady?” his hand finally left her arm.

“I have known you longer than anyone else,” she said, smiling. It was true. His face was the first memory that she could trust as true, his eyes, and that hand that had been on her arm until just a moment before, reached out to her that he was not a threat to her unless she was one to him or his men.

Faurwen stared into those eyes now, and she knew that she should feel uncomfortable under so direct a gaze, and with this man standing so close to her. His impropriety, and his constant disregard with the implied familiarity of his abrupt touches, would have been deemed inappropriate by the gentry of her society, and even it would offer the only acceptable reason for her to strike him, but she found herself not in the least discomforted by it. Once she had stepped past her initial sense of unease at his touch, she didn’t feel uncomfortable at all. It seemed to put a warmth in her breast that she would not call unpleasant. She wondered if Leofric, steadfastly, pressing his head against her shoulder could be counted as a chaperone.

Lord Eomer reached his hand back up to her, gently brushing a few loose tendrils of hair back from her face, the side of his fingers brushing against her cheek. A small shiver ran down her spine at the touch.

Lord Eomer said nothing, but stepped back from her, the sudden absence of him seemed a shock to her. She had not realized how her heart pounded in her chest until she came crashing back into herself. What meaning was there in this feeling? Why had she allowed him to continue so close to her?

“Why are you suddenly concerned?” Faurwen asked, hurrying to catch up to him, leaning a little on the walking stick as she went.

“My lady sister and I are going to speak with the King, but should anything go awry, should some ill will mark us as liars, there must be a plan in place. This is our last chance,” Lord Eomer said, stopping to look out at a horse wildly bucking and kicking at the men trying to calm him. He let out a low breath, leaning a forearm on the fence of the fence penning the horse in.

“Are they breaking that horse?”

“Not that is my cousin’s horse, Br- “

“Brego…” she finished the name.

Lord Eomer rounded on her, “How do you know that?”

Her lower lip was trembling, and she tried to stop it.

“Tell me!” he snatched her roughly, “What happened?”

Faurwen winced at his grip on her, her eyes squeezing shut against the memories, “You will be angry, I think.”

“Do not tell me what you think,” Lord Eomer’s hands softened on her, his hands moving gently on her arms as if to comfort an irritable animal.

“It was my fault,” she gasped out against the tears she was trying to hold back.

“How could it be so?”

“I don’t…” she kept her eyes closed, “I think I was lost, and Theodred had stopped to help me, and he was escorting me somewhere with his Eored… at first we were coming to Edoras, but something happened, Prince Theodred saw something and directed me away on a different path. I remember him riding beside me, and then,” there was a knot in her throat. She looked up at him, a tear disobeying her will and rolling down her cheek. She could remember speaking with Prince Theodred, and him laughing, but she could not find what it was they had said.

Lord Eomer’s face was unreadable, his gaze boring into her without end.

“I am so sorry. It’s all my fault. If Theodred had ridden on, commanded one of his men to ride with me, if he had just passed me on the road, he might not have come to harm at all.”

Lord Eomer shook his head gently, releasing her after a moment, his hand moving to brush the fallen tear down her cheek, “Are you certain of this?”

She turned her face away from him, swallowing hard, “How else could I know Brego’s name, my lord?”

Theodred was not much older that Eomer. He seemed kind and affable, and she had enjoyed his company. She found herself hoping that he would recover, and that she could meet him again in better circumstances.

“I must go,” Lord Eomer was standing close behind her, his voice was gentle, but seemed heavy somehow, “I beg you to remember your oath, my lady.”

She knew he had meant to be comforting, but that he had duties to fulfill, and even as she bowed her head to him, she felt herself sinking into herself as he left her there. She stared at the dark brown horse, attempting to fend off the men, and she felt for him, wondering if he could feel the same deep pain that she did. Brego knew what had happened that day, and had seen it all, and still had those memories.

Faurwen made her slow way up the path to Meduseld, running through her options. She could take Leofric and run, but where would she go? No, she couldn’t do that. She could make nice with Wormtongue to survive, but she despised the man. Perhaps she could try to entice him away from Lady Eowyn. It would be honorable to lay her own safety down for another, but she knew her personality would not be able to pull off such a deception. She could lock herself with Lady Eowyn in a room until the worst of the impending coup had passed, but an ax would take down the door easily. Lord Eomer was right, she would have to pack a bag quickly, and tell Lady Eowyn to do the same.

Faurwen felt as if she was being led by the hand to a room within Meduseld, to the royal family’s wing, but she was not going to Lady Eowyn. She opened the door to Prince Theodred’s room, and saw Baldgwyn sitting by him, and the woman looked up from her needlework as the door opened.

“What are you doing here, dear?” she asked.

“How is the Prince?” Faurwen’s voice sounded as if it were coming from far away.

“He is through the worst of it, I think. He seems to breathe easier, and his wounds are healing themselves. It looks promising.”

Faurwen hesitantly approached the bed, only coming close enough to see his face. She knew his features before she fully made them out. She lowered herself to kneel, “My Lord Theodred….”

“Do you know him, my lady?” Baldgwyn asked, knowing that she must have to be brought back with him.

“We were acquainted for a brief time,” Faurwen said, her voice low.

“You were with him. You remember what happened.”

“It is my fault that he lies there,” the silent tears were coming again.

“Oh, lamb,” Baldgwyn ran a calming hand over Faurwen’s hair as she stooped down beside her, wrapping her arms around the young girl, and holding her as if she were a child, “This is not of your making. You did not strike those blows.”

“But if he had not found me- “

“Then you would be dead.”

“Perhaps that would have been better.”

“I will not hear that, now,” Baldgwyn said, smoothing her hands over Faurwen’s back, “Do not think such a thing as that.”

Faurwen shook her head, “I am a useless girl, I am no warrior, nor do I possess some great mind. What use am I in times such as these?”

“We, none of us ask to be born,” Baldgwyn clucked, wiping Faurwen’s face with her thumbs, “Now you look here, there is little enough that can’t be solved when you face it straight on, and that’s all we need to do. Do not give yourself over to hopelessness, dear girl. Come along now,” Baldgwyn stood, offering her hand to the young girl to help her up from the stone floor.

The pair of ladies went out into the corridor and they both froze at the sight of the men moving through the corridor opening the doors before they saw Faurwen. One called out, pointing at her.

“What is the meaning of this?” Faurwen asked, straightening her back as much as she could bear. The men gave no answer, a brutal and wild look to them, and Faurwen knew that they meant to take her, “You will answer me at once!” Try to draw out all the fury of a lady, but the men faltered for only a moment before laying rough hands on her and dragging her away against her protests.

One spoke in accented Westron to her, “By the order of Théoden King, you are to be put under arrest for the attempted murder of his son, Theodred Prince.”

In a strange flash of insight, Faurwen realized these men were Dunlending. By what reason would they be in Meduseld? The Dunlending’s hatred of the Horse Lords was well known. Even as her mind was putting together what was happening to her, she found it so hard to reconcile the Dunlending men dragging her to a tiny, dank dungeon cell.


	4. Chapter 4

The days passed in long stretches, though she could not say how much time had passed in the small dark cell, punctuated by hunger and pain. The grip she held on her consciousness and reality seemed to weaken. The first day had been hard won, and she had been able to fight off the men that Wormtongue ordered to beat her until she answered his questions. She had bit one of the men hard enough to draw blood and been able to twist the arm of another when he took hold of her. But by the second day without food, she was losing her ability to fight back.

Somehow, she was aware of harsh voices speaking over her in angry tones, but she felt herself fading, her dry throat aching for water and it render her all but unable to speak. She remembered curling in the dark corner of the cell against kicking boots and wailing hands, attempting to compel some confession from her. This could not last. How long could a person live without water? How long had she been in this cell? Faith in her ability to survive was whittled away piece by piece as the hunger pangs and headaches came. Her stomach expelled foamy sickness, telling her how far her dehydration had come.

Something else she had forgotten presented itself to her, and she knew that she was terrified of confinement, and of underground places.

There was something that came to the door of her cell, and it took her muddled mind longer than it should have to recognize the whining of a dog, his paw scratching at the door and at the space under it. She hoped the evil men would not hurt the innocent animal. She just wanted to sleep, to conserve her strength until the bark sounded from the dog, raising an alarm in her instincts, pulling her limbs into herself, shielding her body as best she could against further assault as the door opened.

“Faurwen!” Eowyn called, seeing the small shape of the woman curled against the corner of the dungeon room. She was dressed in only her kirtle and she was cold to the touch, her hair a mad tangle and her lips chapped, and bleeding from a blow. A fresh bruise had started to form on the skin of her left cheek. Lady Eowyn crouched before her, “What have they done to you?”

Faurwen opened her dry mouth, and a lowly croak came out, “I am not assassin, my lady, you must tell the king so…”

“All of Wormtongue’s work is to be undone,” Lady Eowyn said, helping Faurwen to her stand, “I did not know you were here.”

“Where did you think I was?” Faurwen asked, confused, and trying not to feel angry at the abandonment.

Baldgwyn held a chalice of water to Faurwen’s chapped lips, “Slowly girl,” her soft voice came out as Faurwen sipped the water, “We don’t want to shock your body.”

“Wormtongue said that you had left with my brother when he was banished,” Lady Eowyn said, “he said that you had left me behind.”

Faurwen shook her head, taking another small drink of water, “I was bidden by Lord Eomer to get you out of the city if it went poorly, though I clearly failed in my charge.”

Baldgwyn was smoothing a hand over Faurwen’s back, “There is no need to worry about that, lady, for we are delivered. I think that beast had hoped to let you die down here and that no one would ever know.”

Caelon’s wet nose prodded at her knee as if testing her for transparency, making Faurwen think that she must look like a ghost, some terrible haunting soul trapped in these walls. The ladies were putting a wool, woven wrap around her shoulders over the thin kirtle that she wore, as they slowly walked through the corridors of the hall. Faurwen felt aware of the strange and pitying faces that she passed as she was led from her captivity.

“Uncle,” Lady Eowyn said to a man of golden hair and beard, a few strands of silver mixed into the fullness of his hair, “This Lady is of Gondor, and Lord Eomer offered her sanctuary here.”

Faurwen looked at the King, startled but the change in his person. He seemed perhaps twenty years younger than he had before, “By the grace of the Valar…” Faurwen whispered in shock, her voice cracking a little. She attempted to curtsy, staggering.

“I extend the offer of sanctuary,” Théoden King, reached out to help stabilize the young lady, “my lady, for however long you should need it,” The King’s voice was clear before he turned his attention to Baldgwyn, “My Lady Baldgwyn, please take her needs in hand, if you would, and ensure her comfort. Have a bath drawn for her, and see that she is fed.”

“Thank you, Théoden King,” Faurwen said, trying to sound regal, but sure she was failing in it.

The King gave her a kindly look of concern, “We will see that you are well tended, my lady. Do not hesitate to ask for anything.”

She could see the regret in his eyes at not only her own state, but the state to which everything around him had fallen.

0x0x0

Hot water was brought, and yet more broth, and Baldgwyn stayed by her side, ignoring Faurwen’s protests, “I am sure you have more pressing matters to tend to, my lady.”

“No, Lady Faurwen, I have taken you on as my charge,” the kindly lady said, “The ladies of this court are not so dainty as our kin to the South. We all pitch in and we tend to each other.”

Faurwen felt ashamed, her face warm.

Baldgwyn laughed, “You thought I was only some aged servant?”

“I am sorry of my mistake, my lady.”

“Ah, don’t be,” Baldgwyn rubbed some oil into her hair, perfuming it with the scent of the flowers that bloomed over the flatlands, “You have suffered greatly, sweet girl, and in such hard times, it is more important that you be made comfortable than to bow to such high courtly manners as you are accustomed to. Such ways hold little enough sway in these lands.”

“But as a noble lady, you are entitled to certain respects.”

“The respect, I’ll take,” Baldgwyn began to comb the damp tangles of Faurwen’s hair, “When you get to be my age, you find that proprietary nonsense is just that. I am a widow and my sons have gone to uphold their oaths to Lord Eomer. If I were not tending to you, I might find myself some cranky old woman alone in my home.”

“Lord Eomer… was indeed banished?” Faurwen asked.

“Just before those brutes took hold of you. But these new travelers say that Lord Eomer still rides out, patrolling the Riddermark and doing what he can to protect our people.”

Faurwen didn’t give a reply, she was lost in her own thoughts. After a moment, she finally said, “He warned me of what could come with his banishment.”

“Oh, that boy has always been one to prepare for the worse, though he can be rash in his own decision making. Though I will at least say that he doesn’t turn to a braggart when his pessimism turns true,” Baldgwyn stood, holding a linen towel out for Faurwen.

“He seems a good man,” Faurwen said, simply.

“He is, though he can be cantankerous, make no mistake. He had to grow up faster than was right.”

Faurwen thought on how strange it felt for a lady to act as Baldgwyn did. A lady of the Mark was tutting over her hair like a maid, having sat her at a simple desk-like vanity against the wall by the window. There was no glass mirror, but a slap of polished metal, that Faurwen turned her eyes reflexively from. She knew there were handmaids here, yet this lady who must have been in charge of her own manor was combing and brushing out her hair, and she spoke freely as she did so.

“I always wanted a daughter,” Baldgwyn said gently confiding, “But it was not to be.”

“Are all ladies for Rohan so free with their opinions?” Faurwen asked, “I mean no offense, but I do not think it is so at home.”

Baldgwyn smiled but did not answer, a small shadow coming over her face as she looked at Faurwen’s face, “Oh, look what those beasts did to your pretty face,” her weathered hand gently stroked the sore spot on Faurwen’s cheek.

“Am I pretty? I must have looked ghastly after all the trauma I have been through.”

“Have you not seen your face, child?”

She had seen warped glimpses of her and in the basin of water she washed in each morning, but it had not seemed important. Further, some fear had stopped her from looking at her face in the mirror, knowing she might not recognize it, and not ready for the strange feeling of not knowing her face.

“Go on, look,” Baldgwyn gently pushed her toward the metal mirror, and the urging her to look at the pale circle of her face under the damp cover of her black hair.

Faurwen looked at the reflection in the mirror, and she almost gasped. The face looking back at her did indeed look a fright, battered and bruised, but she struggled to look past the healing cut to her forehead, the split lip and the swollen ugly dark bruise to look at the face. It had a strange sort of prettiness, maybe even beauty, her features well appointed, her nose straight and a little sharp, her blue grey eyes wide, and her lips plump and pink. Her skin besides those blights of violence was cream pale and smooth, forming a round heart shaped face. What struck her most of all was how young she looked. The wide eyes that stared back at her did not seem to show how old she felt at present.

She looked back at Baldgwyn who smiled, “You are very lovely, dear girl.” The older lady pressed a kiss against the top of her head before returning to her attention to gently pulling tangles from her dark curls.


	5. Chapter 5

They had buried Theodred, and for a moment afterward it had seemed as if things might fall back into a normal routine, even in light of the tragedy of it, but that moment lasted only a few hours as word came from the outlying villages of raids and attacks from the Dunlendings. Faurwen found herself no longer the only stranger of the court of Meduseld. The wizard Mithrandir had brought with him, a Dunedain ranger, a dwarf and an elf into the city. They had been tracking a raiding party of Uruk-hai in search of their friends who had been taken, and with them they brought news that Lord Eomer was alive and well, but continuing his patrol, and ignoring the now broken banishment. A sense of sadness washed through Faurwen, knowing that Lord Eomer was unaware that he was allowed to return to his home.

She had never met Mithrandir but had seen him about the halls of Minas Tirith, and knew that her family treated him with suspicion, but he seemed to be offering sound council to the King. Faurwen peered around a support column at the far end of the hall, almost nervously, peering at the guests.

“What are you doing, girl?” Lady Baldgwyn asked, pulling on her skirt, leading her out of the hall.

“I have never seen an elf before,” Faurwen said quietly.

“There are a great many things you have not seen, but I doubt now is the time for your curiosities,” Lady Baldgwyn had gently scolding her before peeking around for a look, “I don’t see what the fuss would be anyhow, slim fellow like that, like as not, a wind would knock him down.”

Caelon had taken to following Faurwen where she went, surely because of the scraps from her plate that he was assured by his presence at her knee, not leaving her even as they had prepared to make leave of Edoras for the safe keep of Helm’s Deep. While Faurwen did not agree with the decision to flee Edoras, feeling that it was exactly what their enemies might expect them to do, but she kept her council to herself, and packed her few possessions and the ration of food allotted her as a guest of the Court. Caelon would sometimes move from her to inspect Lady Eowyn, loyally moving to protect her if needed, but he seemed to return to Faurwen’s side without hesitation.

“He only stays by my side because he knows I will feed him,” Faurwen reasoned.

“Perhaps, though I am glad of any comfort he can give you,” Lady Eowyn said looking to the dog’s head in Faurwen’s lap, “He is a good and loyal beast.”

“I think that I might need that sense of security, just now,” Faurwen said, smoothing the raggedy fur on the hound’s head.

And the battle had come to Helm’s Deep. Faurwen had hidden in the caves with the women and the children, though the close and dark stone made her unendingly nervous, and she did all that was in her power not to betray her intense claustrophobia. She did joke to Lady Eowyn that she might rather like to find a tree on the field before the keep and hide in its branches. Caelon had stayed firmly be her side, and at a few points the large dog had climbed into her lap, seeming to forget his size as he sat there, nosing and licking her cheeks. She had posted herself by the door of the caves, countering the danger with the knowledge that if the army of Rohan and their elvish allies won this battle, she would be among the first out of the captive security of the caves, and if they did not win, she would still be released from her fear sooner.

When victory had come, and the doors opened, Faurwen had all but ran from the enclosing space. In part, she had wished that she had no done so for the sights of the soldiers, dead and bloody. There was only one thing that she could do to be useful. She followed Baldgwyn to set up medical care for the survivors, and Faurwen found that she was good at the work. She must have been trained as her hands moved quickly, and she made few mistakes, even with Caelon sitting by her station.

After a few hours, Caelon gave a quick bark and he ran from her side, bolting off.

“Caelon!” Faurwen called after him, not taking her eyes off the stitches she was putting to an old man’s forearm.

“Oh, he’ll be fine,” Baldgwyn said, “he knows to keep from under the horses. He likely just smelled a rabbit, or needs to do his- “

“That should do, father,” Faurwen said, kindly as she finished wrapping his wound, “Now keep that clean as you can,” she helped him up before washing her hands in a basin. “I need fresh water here,” she raised her hand, so the attendants would know where to bring the water. She ran her bare forearm over her brow, damp with sweat.

“You should take a break,” Lady Baldgwyn said, “You need fresh eyes and rested hands.”

“Next!” Faurwen called, wiping her hands on the linen hand towel tucked into her belt.

The young man stepped toward her. He couldn’t have been much older than seventeen, and there was a glint in his eye. “No!” Faurwen called at him, pointing a finger, “Your arm is already set. Don’t let me catch you back here again, or it’s a whipping for you!”

She didn’t know if the boy understood her, he had earlier seemed to not understand Westron, but her tone seemed to get her words across to him.

He started away with a smirk before turning back and calling something to her in Rohirric, his good hand pressed to his heart.

Faurwen looked to the nurse beside her, one of Baldgwyn’s pretty nieces, Cynewara, for a translation.

“He says that if you would be his sweetheart, he would show you,” Cynewara laughed, “such joy and pleasure!”

“For about a minute, I’d dare say,” Faurwen retorted, her hands on her hips, gaining her a fresh round laughter and whoops from the other ladies serving as nurses.

Cynewara translated her words to the boy, and told him off before her words stopped, “Westo Eomer Hal,” she said instead, her voice losing most of its mirth.

Faurwen washed her hand again, trying to get her nails clean as she felt Caelon lean on her leg again, panting happily. “My Lord Eomer,” Faurwen dipped quickly, “I am pleased to see you returned. Are you injured at all?”

“A few scrapes and bruises, bit nothing of great concern. I am certain you have more pressing cases.”

“I am tending to abrasions and sutures, my lord. Apparently, I am keen with a needle,” she looked down at her hands, the blood had barely been shifted from her nails, “My skills might not extend beyond small things that might need closed and kept clean, so they do not become septic.”

Lady Baldgwyn said something in Rohirric to Lord Eomer, her tone teasing him.

Lord Eomer shot her one of his irritable looks which only made Lady Baldgwyn laugh and wave her hand at him.

“What?” Faurwen asked, trying to keep the damaged side of her face from his view.

“She is overly concerned with my wellbeing,” Eomer said, giving Baldgwyn another look.

“You are one of the high lords of Rohan, my lord, I am sure all of your people are concerned with your well-being.” She straightened her back, her hands on her hips to lean into the ache in her joints.

“That’s it,” Baldgwyn snapped at her, “You’ve been due a break. You’re not yourself done healing, and if I have to put you back together again, I’ll not be pleased. Now get on,” Baldgwyn called to one of the other ladies who had been on a break to take over Faurwen’s station.

Faurwen’s eyes rolled as she closed them, pulling the kerchief from her hair, and gave Baldgwyn a quick curtsy, “Yes, my lady.”

“One hour,” Baldgwyn called after her, “And get something to eat!”

“Yes, my lady,” Faurwen gestured to Caelon, as she started away, “Come, boy.” The hound fell in step beside her.

“Disloyal cur,” Lord Eomer said behind her.

“I beg your pardon, my lord?” Faurwen asked, rounding at the insult.

“It does not seem as though he missed me at all.”

Her face softened, “Oh, no, he just knows that I will feed him.”

“I think not,” Eomer said, looking intense, “He has clearly been turned against me in my absence. Perhaps you are some servant of the Dark Lord and you have done some evil spell to steal my dog from me.”

She stared up at him, walking beside him, her mouth hanging open a little, “My Lord, I- “she noticed the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Oh!” she snapped, and slapped his arm before she could think to stop herself, “Why do you seek to vex me, so?”

He almost smiled, turning his head to look at her. A shadow fell over his face, “What happened here?” he asked, reaching up to touch the fading bruise that still marked her cheek. He tilted her chin up to look at her square on, his thumb brushing where her lip was healing. She didn’t look at him, keeping her eyes trained down, even as her cheeks colored under his inspection.

“Well, I hope you at least gave back as well as you received,” Lord Eomer said.

“At first,” she allowed, “Though after a time without food or water…” she chanced a look up, and almost immediately regretted it. What qualms had this strange lord with personal space? “My Lord?” she asked at his gaze.

“Perhaps I should have taken Eowyn and you with me and hidden you away.”

“Your duties were more pressing that to dwell on regrets.”

Her knees buckled as Caelon leaned against her still healing legs. Lord Eomer’s hands grasped her waist to stabilize her, causing the color to climb higher in her cheeks.

“Are you alright?” Lord Eomer asked.

She nodded vehemently, “Yes, my lord,” she stepped back from him, her eyes trained on the stones under her feet, beginning to walk on again.

“Do you blush, my lady?” Lord Eomer asked, following after her.

“Oft, it would seem,” she replied, “Though perhaps it is only of your making.”

“Do I make you so uncomfortable?”

“No, and yet sometimes, yes,” she admitted, starting up the steps to the parapet balcony of the fortress, Lord Eomer offered his hand to help her up the stairs, stepping in front of her, noting the look of confusion painting her features.

Faurwen looked up at him, her brow crooked as she took the offered hand, though she might not have needed it, “Tell me, my lord Eomer, do you have nothing better to do than to seek out a simple girl and tease her?”

His face changed a little, “I was sent to rest, but found that I could not manage it yet.”

“Ah, so you come to taunt the amnesiac?” she tried not to smile.

“I have spent the last days in the company of my men, and do not misunderstand me,” he helped her up the final stairs before falling in step with her again, “I enjoy their company. It is right for men to seek the company of their own, but I think that after such societies have been spent, being so long afield, it is natural to seek out the delightful conversation of a lady to feel civilized again.”

“And I was the best you could find?” Faurwen asked.

“I had already seen my sister,” he replied as if this was all the explanation needed, “but look as I did, I could not find you. I must have walked past you a few times.

“You looked for me then?” she raised her chin a little, her brow quirked at him, “For a man of your station to seek me out must be quite an honor, though I know not what your expectation of me could be.”

“Expectation?”

“I am a simple-minded maid, my lord.”

“False modesty is the curse of women in your country,” Lord Eomer scoff, “I detest it, as I detest all lies.”

“It must make life easier to see the world in such absolutes at that.”

“No, in fact, my lady, it makes things harder for me,” he admitted, “to try to see things simply when they so rarely are.”

She paused by the wall of the barricade, resting her forearms on the ledge before looking out over the plains. The wind came up the stone walls offering a mild refreshment along with the acrid smell of the burning bodies, “I think I understand what you mean, though I might not agree. For example, I have recently, with the help of Wormtongue and his men found that I have an unabating fear of small space, and of being held underground, and now, of caves. I don’t find the comfort in stone walls that perhaps I ought to. Somehow, I find this more tolerable,” she nodded at the plains before looking at him, not surprised to find his penetrating gaze fixed on her, his eyes moving over her face and her hands. She smiled at him, “So tell me, my lord, what category would you fix me in, good or bad?”

Lord Eomer looked over the smoldering field, thinking a moment before looking back at her, “When I think of you, I think of light, but a light akin to those fires. I think there is a flame in you, brilliant and perhaps deadly, but that you have been forced to smother that flame, in order to make others more comfortable,” he looked out again a moment before returning to look at her, his gaze softening, “I do wonder if you would not be more happy disregarding the comfort of others to tend to your own needs.”

“Is that why you are as yet, unmarried, my lord Eomer?” she asked.

“I did not know that you took such interest in my marital status.”

“And I did not know that you thought of me.”

The corners of his mouth twitched again, the start of a smile too soon checked, “I should think few men in your acquaintance find themselves able to not think of you, whether those thoughts be bidden or not.”

“If that is true, then you must think of me often,” she said, teasing him a little, “I would think you would have more important matters for your time.”

“I do,” he admitted, “which makes it all the more frustrating.”

“I can only imagine,” she said, noting the shadows under his eyes, “Does my lord suffer from nightmares?”

“Sometimes,” he said, “Do not all people?”

“I mean to ask if that why you do not sleep?”

“Sometimes,” he repeated the word slowly, his tone softening as if no one had ever thought to ask him such a question.

“You should take some warm milk with mint oil,” she said, keeping her hold on his gaze, “Or valerian root, perhaps. It might help you to calm your mind so you can sleep.” It was the only proper answer she could give, though her mind thought to say that perhaps she could help him sleep.

“Are we sure you are a lady?” Lord Eomer asked, “Perhaps you are a healer. You do not seem afraid to get your hands dirty.”

Reflexively, her fingers curled into fists, hiding her dirty fingers.

That laughing grunt left his throat again, as he peeled off a glove, “Only one way to know. May I?” he asked, reaching for her left hand, stopping short to ask permission.

She held the hand up to him, palm up for his inspection.

Eomer leaned his hip against the stone wall before taking her hand, palm up in his, and running the course tips of his fingers over her palm, giving her the softest touch. His fingers traced a pattern over her skin with the care of a man aware of his strength. For a fleeting moment, Faurwen wondered how oft this man had taken up sword and spear in that very hand, and the violence he had seen, even just this morning. And now he was touching her with all the care one might show some precious thing, turning her hand this way and this way and that, brushing his thumb over the tips of her fingers before returning to her palm.

“Yes, it would seem you are indeed a lady,” he said, suddenly pulling her from her revelry, “There is no other way you would have hands so soft as this. You must be an accomplished musician, my lady, for the callouses on your fingers’ tips.”

She stopped herself short of asking him not to stop and return his gentle touches to her. Her arms prickled with gooseflesh.

“I think you should return to fresher air, away from the smell of death, my lady. You are unused to such foul air, it seems, for the trouble you have breathing.”

How was it he could take such careful stock of her and not realize the effect her seemed to have on her. Or perhaps, more likely, he knew what it was he was doing by his every action, though she found herself unsure why he had any change in her at all. What exhilaration she felt at his presence, at his touch, even just in his gaze. When he looked at her, she felt as if he was really seeing her, and trying to understand her better, not just giving her the cursory look that a pretty girl might expect.

Faurwen did not move her eyes from his, almost challenging him to look away first, but her gaze was free of confrontation, but studying him. The late morning light still shone on his face, alighting his dark eyes and making them shine like amber.

“Are you making a study of me, Lady Faurwen?”

“I would not think you so unused to a woman’s gaze,” Faurwen replied.

“I did not say that I was,” his head tilted a little.

“Of course not, my lord. A bachelor High Lord of the Mark must have the gazes of many ladies to choose from.”

“And if such a lord were to prefer the gaze of a single lady above that of others?”

She turned her body square to his, “I should think a lady should be honored by the compliment of such a Lord’s attention.”

“Would you feel so honored, were you given such attention?” Lord Eomer asked, “As we are speaking so hypothetically?”

“I suppose it would depend on the lord in question.”

“What qualities would you think would be needed to recommend this lord, if he were real?”

“Fealty and honor,” she started, “Kindness and a care for others, and intelligence, wit and humor, if it can be managed.”

“What a long list of requirements. Have you listed them in order of importance?”

“A sliding scale that might shift with time and intent. Tell me, my lord, why you ask of the prerequisites for such a position in my affection. Do you mean to make an application?” she asked, proud of her ability to hold this conversation with the eloquence befitting her station, even with the large hound Caelon leaning on her leg. Perhaps she was drawing courage from Caelon, she thought.

Lord Eomer considered her and her question. At long last he said, “I fear I am not in possession of all qualities you would require in a lord.”

“I do not think you would be found so wanting, my lord.”

He did not reply, the same ghost of a smile flashed across his lips for a moment before he forced composure, before finally looking away.

“Do I displease you, my lord?” Faurwen asked.

“Why should you think that?” his eyes turned back to her.

“Well you must be displeased in some form. You have not let lose a single true smile in the time we have spoken.”

There was a twitch in his brow, and he glanced over the men, milling about them in the causeway below. He looked at the mothers and the wives, keening of their loss. He turned his eyes back to her again, conveying something beyond words, the same sense of helplessness that plagued her own soul. He shook his head a little, “I have few smiled to give, corenu, but you have brought me a sense of comfort. Even in dark times as these…” his words slowed, “Perhaps in happier times I will find a smile. I shall keep it for you.”

“What does that word mean?” She asked. Seeing his confusion, she expounded, “Corenu?”

“A term of friendship,” Eomer cast his eyes over the plains again, and she thought that he did look fine, even weary from travel and battle. And even as she thought it, she felt ashamed of her girlish interest in him. Her interest was not of the service or protection he offered his people. She admired him as a man, still young enough to marry if he had a mind to it.

She needed to turn her mind from such frivolous thought as these, she knew. She had to put such notions away until such a time, if any, that they may be deemed appropriate. But she already knew the attempt might be futile. Once more she felt a like to a stupid girl, and not a lady.


	6. Chapter 6

The ride back to Edoras seemed to take less time, though Faurwen could not decide if this was due to the lighter load of their supplies, or if it was the lighter spirits of the people. While they were far from safe, the danger seemed more distant in this moment of safety. The Eored seemed joyous in their victory, but ever with an eye to the horizons for further sign of trouble, but none ever came.

The custom of the Rohirrim people was to feast after battle to honor their victory, and to pay tribute to their fallen comrades. The concept, while something that Faurwen was aware of, still intrigued her.

“And the men drink themselves into a stupor?” she asked Lady Eowyn as the princess styled her hair, pinning a narrow braid to another, making a crown of her black hair while the rest fell down over her shoulders in dark waves.

“Yes, but we may drink as well,” Lady Eowyn said, taking a bristle brush to Faurwen’s curly hair, lock by lock, bringing it to a polish, “It is our right, as ladies of the court.”

“But not too much,” Lady Baldgwyn cautioned, helping another lady, one of her nieces, Freya into her dress, lacing up the back of the garment, “The effect of mead is strong, and if you are not used to it, the effects can come on quickly and hard.”

“I for one am just happy to not be forced to wear stays,” Faurwen said.

“If those torture devices come into fashion here, I will become a hermit before submitting to such a garment,” Lady Freya laughed.

“But I have heard that it can enhance one’s figure,” Lady Cynewara called, pressing her hands firmly into her waist as demonstration of the effect, making her hips seem wider in comparison.

“But they weaken your back!” Lady Freya retorted.

“For hips like Lady Faurwen’s I might take a weak back,” Lady Cynewara gestured to Faurwen with her brush as Faurwen moved to let Baldgwyn start on Lady Eowyn’s hair.

“Don’t be so sure,” Faurwen said, taking the long thick tresses of her hair in her hand, and bending over, shifting her back a little as she stood back up, her back bones cracking and popping as she twisted her spine.

She looked at the sisters, their faces contorted in disgust. Faurwen’s smile dropped, thinking she had gone too far in her comfort, before the ladies started laughing at her.

“Is that the best you can do?” Lady Freya asked, pulling her skirts up to shift her foot and ankle, rotating it as the same cracking noises came from the joint, “A loom fell on my leg when I was twelve years old.”

Lady Cynewara turned her neck and shoulders, the bones creaking, “Fell from a horse two summers past.”

“Girls,” Lady Baldgwyn chided them without any anger, “Is this how you will comport yourselves?”

The sisters fell to giggling as Lady Cynewara finished off Lady Freya’s braids.

“Can I help at all? I know how to braid,” Faurwen offered.

“No, you are our guest, sit and relax, you won’t get another chance, I daresay once the banquet starts,” Lady Freya said, “And besides our braids have meanings, Lady Faurwen.”

“What do these mean, then?” Faurwen asked, her fingertips touching her hair.

“That you are a noble maid,” Lady Freya said, “Since we don’t know more of your family, we cannot give you anything further.”  
“Did you truly think you were the only member of our sex whose bones made noises?” Lady Cynewara asked.

“I think I was raised to be as quiet as possible. But I seem to have forgotten most of my finishing,” Faurwen said, “Though I doubt anyone my family would have me marry would be pleased with me, anyhow, damaged as I am,” Faurwen caught a round of looks between the kinswomen and Lady Baldgwyn. Mistaking the look for confusion, she pressed on, “The scars on my back are healing, but I think I’ll carry them for a while. Few enough Gondorian Lords want as scarred wife.”

“My mother said that scars tell us that we are stronger than whatever it was that tried to best us,” Cynewara said, “They tell us that we have lived fully and without fear.”

“I should think so fine a lady as yourself would be able to find a husband that values you for who you are,” Lady Freya pointed out, a teasing tone in her voice.

“But where could one look to find such a man?” Lady Cynewara asked, her fingers resting under her chin.

Faurwen only half heard them, as her fingers adjusted the pins against her scalp to feel more comfortable, “If you find such a man, see if he has a brother for me.”

“Well, perhaps he might be right under your nose.”

“I should hope he would be above it,” Faurwen teased back, “Unless you mean for me to marry the Dwarf Gimli.”

“Or one of the halflings that Théoden King brought back from Isengard,” Lady Eowyn said shooting a look at the lady sisters.

“Are they the halflings Lord Aragorn and his friends were seeking?”

“It would seem so,” Lady Eowyn said, turning her head back for Lady Baldgwyn’s attentions. A light pink had sprung to her cheeks at the mention of Lord Aragorn, Faurwen noted, smiling. She had suspected for a few days that Lady Eowyn liked Lord Aragorn, but she said nothing.

“Théoden King has safely returned then?” Faurwen took a seat by Lady Freya and Lady Cynewara, accepting a brush from the latter. Then Lord Eomer had returned as well, and of course they would have. They must have returned for there to be a banquet in the halls.

“Yes, earlier today,” Lady Cynewara said watching Faurwen run the brush over her hair, “Don’t trouble yourself to long on your hair, hair so thick as yours will be tangled up soon enough. Unless you mean to catch the eye of someone particular.”

“Enough of your teasing,” Lady Baldgwyn said, adjusting the fine embroidered cloth pinned to her hair and under her chin and the golden circlet over her brow, “There has been long enough time in common cloth, and who can say when the halls of Meduseld will be so full of light and laughter again?” she looked over the ladies in her care, “Take joy in your youth, my girls, and enjoy this night, but I will remind you once more, enjoy yourself not too much.”

Faurwen smoothed her hands over the soft yellow fabric of her dress, the garment was simple but lovely, and had loosed at the shoulders before the material tapered to fit her arms nicely. Her hips were a little wider than the other ladies, but her waist was trim, the hips of the dress held a little snug against her hips, but not too much to be uncomfortable, just enough that she felt womanly. When she walked, the blue flowered border at the hem of her dress shifted with her steps. She glanced at the other ladies of the Meduseld court and she was struck for not the first time, by how much she stood out from them, not just for her dark hair. They all seemed to possess the sense of casual confidence that she coveted and tried to mirror in her own actions.

The sisters walked behind Eowyn, and she behind them, their eyes forward as they walked down the long center aisle of the hall. It offered a sense of assured peace after battle, and as a reminder to the men of what they fought for. Théoden stood before the head table, surveying the occupants of the Great Hall, and smiling at the ladies as they curtsied in their turn to him, Lady Eowyn, going to stand beside him. When Faurwen rose in her turn, Théoden King gave her a courteous nod, and she smiled prettily. As she turned, her eyes flitted a moment to Lord Eomer, meeting his gaze. He gave her another small bow of his head as she passed, and she wondered stupidly what she was meant to do with this acknowledgement, though she found that it had given her the smallest thrill.

She followed Lady Freya and Lady Cynewara to the places they were meant to wait, along the walls of the hall as the other ladies filed into the space. Faurwen watched them each, looking over their dresses and different styles of hair, wondering what they all meant, and if Lord Eomer would choose one of these ladies as a wife, if that was part of the reason for having them all make this short walk.

“Lord Eomer looks well,” Lady Freya whispered in a low whisper.

Faurwen didn’t answer, not knowing who she was talking to. Her eyes had found the elf, and she found herself still curious about him, looking so pale that his skin and golden hair seemed almost to glow. Lady Freya’s foot nudged her, drawing Faurwen’s attention, and she whispered “yes?”

“I said, Lord Eomer looks well, do you not find?” Lady Freya’s lips were close to Faurwen’s ear, “Though, one cannot be certain where that so well look is directed.”

Faurwen’s brow quirked a moment before she turned her eyes back to Lord Eomer and was startled to see his gaze shifting to her a moment before returning straight ahead. A confused sense of ease came over her as he eyes flicked back to her again, holding her gaze a moment longer. Faurwen composed her features in the courtly mask of disinterest, hoping that she resembled a lady who could not be flustered, and showing only a place blank expression if she were. She looked sideways at the giggling sisters, and she nudged Lady Freya’s foot with her own.

Looking over the other ladies of Meduseld, Faurwen found her own regalia plain. Each lady wore some token of their family’s station, a sturdy broach, a circlet or a heavy golden chain.

These pieces were large, but beautiful in their own way. Being a guest of the Royal Family, there meant that Lady Eowyn was unable to loan her anything to her new friend, but Lady Eowyn hadn’t even looked at her jewel box. Perhaps out of some sense of solidarity, Lady Eowyn wore no jewelry, though the front of her court dress was stitched with a fine gold thread.

Where Faurwen had felt lovely, she now wondered if she was underdressed.

Later she would voice her nervousness to Lady Baldgwyn, who had clicked her tongue, “There’s no need to gild a lily, Lady Faurwen.”

Lady Eowyn offered up Théoden’s goblet to him, and any whispering in the hall quieted, and the men rose to their feet as Théoden King held the wide goblet out.

“Tonight,” he said, “we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country. Hail, hail the victorious dead!”

“Hail!” called back the men of the halls before they drank their thanks.

Roasted meats and fresh bread were brought in and with it came the merrymaking assured by survival. Faurwen, unused to such rambunctious festivities followed Lady Cynewara and Lady Freya as they went to one of the casks of ale and accepted earthenware tankards of the brew.  
“Do you like ale, Lady Faurwen?” Lady Cynewara asked, holding out a tankard to her, “I’m afraid we have no wine.”

“I know not,” Faurwen said, lying baldly, though neither woman seemed to doubt her words.

“Oh, because of your memory loss?”

“I have not had much occasion to drink much ale,” she replied politely, wondering what on earth they thought she had been drinking at supper. Maybe they thought she imagined herself above drinking ale, and that the drink of men, soldiers and workers would turn her stomach. She was beginning to gather the impression that these ladies’ teasing was not as well-meaning as she had initially thought. She accepted the ale, and took a drink, “Not bad, though a little bitter to my taste.”

“Perhaps, my lady, you would prefer mead,” Lady Freya offered as if concerned.

“Mead?”

“It is like a sweet wine, made with honey.”

“Oh, but that sound lovely!” Faurwen said.

“Doesn’t it just?” Lady Cynewara smiled, sickly sweet.


	7. Chapter 7

The beginning of the strange warm feeling had begun to take as hold of Faurwen, and she found that she rather liked it. She had drunk through the ale slowly, but the mead had gone a little faster, though it was like drinking syrup for the overwhelming sweetness of it. Lady Eowyn made her way, a masked look of nervousness on her face. The three ladies made their curtsies to the princess and Lady Eowyn noted the quick look between the sisters.

“Lady Faurwen, I wanted to introduce you to someone,” she smiled, linking her arm with Faurwen’s, leading her away.

“Who am I meeting?” Faurwen asked.

“No one, but I wanted to get you away from those snakes,” Lady Eowyn smiled, “How much have they given you to drink?”

“Only an ale and this mead.”

Eowyn took her cup and drained it.

“Oh, but that was mine,” Faurwen grumbled.

“Eat something before you drink anymore.”

“I have drunk alcohol before,” Faurwen said, watching her friend make up a plate for her.

“Well please, pay no heed of those two,” Lady Eowyn handed her the plate before linking her arm with Faurwen’s again, “I certainly try not to.”

“Oh, they are harmless. They are not as sly as they would think.”

Lady Eowyn chuckled, her gaze scanning the room until she found her target, and walked the flushed Faurwen over to her brother, tugging at his sleeve, and whispering something to him. Lord Eomer looked back at Faurwen, looking amused, and he poured water into a tankard, “Take some water, my lady.”

Lady Eowyn pressed her arm, “and keep clear of the sisters,” before leaving Faurwen standing there.  
“Why is everyone so concerned with me? Have Lady Freya and Lady Cynewara played some practical joke on me?” Faurwen asked, drinking the water.

“It would appear so,” Lord Eomer affirmed.

“Well if this is the worst they can muster, I pray they do it again, I think I rather like being drunk,” Faurwen laughed a little, “What did Lady Eowyn say?”

Lord Eomer gave no answer, his attention turning back to the elf and the dwarf, playing a drinking game, the purpose of which seemed to be to pour as much ale into a body as the body would take until one of the players passed out and the other was the winner. Lord Eomer’s lips moved quickly counting out the tankards.

One of the ladies stood by, taking bets.

“What are the odds?” Faurwen asked.

“Five-to-one on Lord Gimli,” Lord Eomer nodded to the dwarf.

She looked up at him as if he were mad.

“You think to beat those odds, my lady?” he asked, confused, the shadow of a smile forming on his lips.

“I think so.”

“But Lord Legolas is a dainty fellow,” Lord Eomer explained, “How would you put that against Lord Gimli’s weight alone?”

“Legolas?” Faurwen asked, “Of Mirkwood?”

“Aye,” Lord Eomer paused a moment, then took couple of gold coins from the pouch on his belt, “Here, I make you a loan.”

“Why?” she looked at the heavy coins in her palm.

“I want to see what you mean to happen.”

She started over, stopping half-way, “My lord, once I make a bet, though I cannot withdraw it?” she asked a little loud.

“A bet made is made,” Eomer said slowly.

“So… if I bet on the elf and he wins, I get money?” she asked as if she had no notion of how gambling worked.

“Indeed.”

“But these must be worth quite a lot,” she said holding the coins out.

“My lady, please make your bet,” the lady taking the bet said, looking annoyed by her game, her face showing that she did not buy any part of Faurwen’s act.

“I bet on the elf,” Faurwen said, smiling wide.

“Why would you do that, my lady?” a man asked.

She shrugged, “Oh, I like the look of him.”

The lady pursed her lips at Faurwen and wrote her out a slip.

“Now will you tell me what you’re playing at?” Lord Eomer asked.

“How much did you bet?”

“Just what I gave you.”

She smirked, “I am going to win you your money back, my lord,” she said simply her voice low.

“Because you like the look of this fellow?”

“Are you jealous?” she asked.

Lord Eomer looked almost startled by the question, making Faurwen laugh.

“Where would the fun be if I told you how the trick worked?” she asked, nodding her head to where the young lady was taking bets, a small grouping of men falling in to try to win even a small share of the money she had bet, increasing their own bets, “Wait and see if I am wrong,” she bit into her cheese feeling rather clever.

Within a few minutes, Lord Legolas slowed, holding his hand up, “I feel something… a slight tingling in my fingertips. I think it’s starting to affect me.”

Faurwen looked up at Lord Eomer, a smug smile on her face as she looked at him. The large man’s eyes could have popped from his head, his eyes had gone so wide.

“See, wadd I tellya?” Lord Gimli asked, “’E canna hol’ his liquor…” he fell back, out cold.

“Oh, poor dear. Could someone please get this fellow somewhere comfortable?” Faurwen called, taking her betting slip up to the lady, who looked ready to cleave her head in two, as she counted out Faurwen’s winnings into a purse.

“Here, my lord,” Faurwen held the purse out to him, “I trust you to keep this safe.”

“Are you not drunk at all, Lord Legolas?” Lord Eomer asked as if it had been his keenest wish to see an elf drunk.

Lord Legolas shrugged, “I can no say I feel any different.”

Faurwen grinned, “Never bet against an elf in a drinking game. The elves of Mirkwood are notorious for their love of wine. I have heard it said that an elf in peak tolerance may drink a cask of wine before feeling any affect at all.”

“That might be an overstatement, my lady,” Lord Legolas said, smiling.

“So,” Lord Eomer said, sounding impressed, “you just fleeced all of the lords in this game?”

“I only bet on sure things,” Faurwen smiled.

“And what will you do with your winnings?”

“Give the money to the poor, or use it to buy seeds for crops, I do not think I have need of it.”

Something like affection came to Lord Eomer’s eyes.

Faurwen turned away, “And well done, Legolas Thranduillion.”

Lord Eomer’s eye was caught by his Uncle, “Ah,” he groaned, hiding his face in his tankard.

“What, my lord?” Faurwen asked.

“My uncle bids me to come and remake the acquaintance of another lady,” Eomer said, dropping his tankard on the tabletop.

Faurwen looked at her and saw what she thought might be the epitome of rohirrian beauty, white blonde hair wove in braids, and pale grey eyes. The lady fairly glittered with gold, and her red dress was fine velvet. Faurwen turned back to look at Lord Eomer.

“I must apparently remember to keep my manners,” Lord Eomer said, his brow quirking.

“Well do be careful, I think that lady means to take a bite out of you.”

“I will return,” Lord Eomer said, his hand resting on the small of her back as he passed her.

“I have heard that your father’s wine is the best on the continent,” Faurwen said, in Sindarin to the Prince of Mirkwood.

“He would be pleased to hear of the renown of his vineyard,” Lord Legolas said, clearly pleased to hear his own language.

“I ought not to have assumed, I do not think I speak your language well…” she blushed, embarrassed.

“You are not bad, though it does sound that you learned from books, and have not spoken with many native to the language.”

“It’s how everyone speaks it in Gondor, so you would be correct,” she laughed, refilling her tankard with ale, her water and food drunk and eaten.

“You came from Gondor, then?”

“As far as anyone can tell. I was attacked by orcs on the road here, and my memory suffers a little. Yet I regain it slowly.”

The elf glanced sideways a moment before continuing in Sindarin, “I am sure you have become the topic of gossip and speculation.”

“Ah, so every court is much the same?” she smiled, “What do they say of me?”

“A few of the ladies are displeased with the attention Lord Eomer pays you. They are concerned that you would be the next queen of Rohan.”

“Is that all?” she laughed, brushing fine breadcrumbs from her hands.

“Many lords have brought their daughters to try for a match, I think,” Lord Legolas said, looking around, as he walked to the other side of the table and standing beside her.

“But I thought that the people of Rohan believed in love matches? They can hardly then force him to marry.”

“I think they hoped one of their ladies would catch his eye.”

“And toss the foreign wench back to her own kin?”

“Not in so many words… if you were simply here, and you did not speak to him, I do not think any of them would have cause to gossip at all.”

“Well, I wish the ladies luck. That lord will prove a hard nut to crack.”

Legolas looked down at her, his brow furrowed a little, “Not so hard as he would have everyone believe.”

She smiled up at him, “If you tell him I said this I will deny it, but I think he’s like a hedgehog. All prickles and danger, but with a soft belly.”

Legolas laughed, “that may so closer to the truth. You have not seen the man in battle.”

“No.”

“I have rarely seen someone that would be so reckless with their own life if it might save another’s.”

“Truly?” Faurwen asked.

“Why is it you mortals are so careless? Your lives are so short, and so precious, but you would so easily throw them away. I do not understand it,” Legolas looked genuinely saddened by this.

“Perchance that is why women live longer than men,” Faurwen said, choosing to jest rather than answer truthfully. Because their lives were so short, things seemed more desperate. They could not just weather the storm of things the ways elves did. She knew that telling him this would not make him feel any better.

Legolas laughed, “Yes, clearly the more intelligent of species,” a faint cloud came over the elf’s eyes for a moment, “If I may, my lady, I might advise you not to take the drink that will be offered.”

“Is it poison?”

“No, the ladies just think it would be amusing if you could not stand.”

“Oh, them,” Faurwen laughed, “they think I have never drunk anything harder than cider before.”

“Perhaps it will come to naught, but they mean to keep bringing mead to you so long as you accept it.”

“Thank you, for your council, my lord,” Faurwen smiled at Cynewara as she offered another cup of mead.

“You speak elvish, Lady Faurwen?” Cynewara asked.

“It would appear so,” she replied, returning to Westron.

“I brought you some mead since you liked it so well,” Cynewara smiled like a wolf.

“Oh, no thank you. One is my limit, I think. I’ll stick to ale,” Faurwen returned the smile, but sweet as if innocent of their game.

Cynewara glanced at the Elf Prince, “Well, I must get back to my sister. Come visit with us later.” She left, trying not to appear awkward.

“I think,” Faurwen said, returning to Sindarin, “that I ought to hire you as a spy, my lord.”

“I will bear that in mind,” Legolas held a small flask out to her, “Some of my father’s wine, if you would like to sample it.”

“I should admit I know nothing of wine, and it might be lost on me.”

He shrugged, “I imagine you miss wine.”

“A bit,” she admitted, taking a small sip, and finding that it was rather good, “I think my father would like it.”

“Do you remember your family?”

“Faces come back to me, but I feel like their names are just out of my reach. I remember things that happened, and how I felt more than anything.”

0x0x0

Eomer returned as he had promised, his square jaw set in irritation.  
“Perhaps you should court one of these ladies to get some peace,” Faurwen teased him, taking his tankard up to refill it for him.

“I do not think that would be the action of a kindly prince,” Lord Eomer replied, leaning against the barrel.

“But it might buy you time to find someone that would please you as well as the Lords of the Mark,” Faurwen smiled, handing the tankard over to him.

“And if I were to find someone that pleased me, but not those lords?”

“You have duties, my lord,” she replied.

“To my country, and my family, true,” he studied her, “but I think I have a duty to my heart as well.”

Faurwen looked over to where some if the guests of the banquet had begun dancing. She smiled up at Lord Eomer, “Do you dance, my lord?”

“I do not, though I enjoy watching,” he replied.

0x0x0

Théoden fell in beside his niece to see what so held her attention in the grouping of dancers. When his eyes followed her gaze, they widened, “Is Eomer dancing?”

“He certainly is trying to,” Eowyn said, a laugh in her voice, not sure how Lady Faurwen had managed it. The dark-haired maiden moved gracefully, her footsteps light, where her brothers were heavy.

Eomer almost looked as if he was enjoying himself, but for the quick looks he shot whenever his eyes crossed one of his men, or even his sister. That look made it clear that if any of them made a jest or said a word at all, he would take them to the ground and summarily beat them until his pride was appeased.

Lady Faurwen said something to him, and his gaze softened on her face as she twirled past him in a wide circle.

“We may have to find him a dance instructor if he means to keep the lady around,” Théoden said, “The lady seems to get what she wants.”

“Do you think he would offer her a suit?” Eowyn asked.

“He seems fond of her, and she is a charming thing in her own way. But the ways for Gondor are different than our own. She might already have a marriage arranged for her.”

Eowyn had not thought of this. Faurwen was certain of her maidenhood and Eowyn had done nothing to discourage the silent attraction that seemed to be growing between her brother and their guest.

“Some high ladies of Gondor are betrothed from their infancy,” Théoden went on, “They make business and politics of their children’s marriages, and they call us the barbarians.” The King took another drink, “Let us think of happier things than that,” he smiled, “I am pleased to see my nephew so happy.”

He watched Eomer take the lady’s hand, a tender look in his eyes as he kept them on Lady Faurwen’s open face. He looked over the crowd, and noted that most looked joyous, even his lords looking on, as if they were relieved that Eomer might make a match, even if it was no one that they had thought of or hoped for. There were some faces of jealousy, and irritation, but there was nothing they could do now. Lady Faurwen might have made a few enemies, but she didn’t seem to care, not in a dismissive way, she was more defiant than that. Her ability to lead the heir of the Mark dance put her above their annoyance. Perhaps this lady would be a keen political mind if she was given the chance.

0x0x0

“Never make me do that again,” Lord Eomer said, taking a drink of mead before passing her the chalice.

“Oh, was it was so terrible as that?” Faurwen’s color was high from exhilaration and excursion, leaning against the column, laughing lightly.

“Give me rather a battle with deadly odd,” he glanced down at her, but she saw him smile. He looked nice smiling, his eyes glinting under his brow.

She smiled back, shaking her head a little as she took a long drink. His fingers brushed hers as he took the chalice back. Her tongue ran over her lips quickly, to savor the sweetness from the mead, and she pretended not to see that his eyes had lingered on her lips for just a moment before looking away from her.

She smiled, “I like mead.”

“See how well you like it in the morning,” he teased, still not looking at her.

“I find little fault in it yet. It makes my lips taste of honey,” she reached out her hand for another drink, and he passed it, not looking back at her. She could see a little color on his cheeks, though she said nothing of it, reveling in the small victory of making him blush, even just a little.

0x0x0

Faurwen leaned against his arm, her eyes heavily lidded with drink and weariness, she was distantly aware that she should not be leaning on Lord Eomer in so familiar a way, but he made no complaint and she felt content, her arm wrapped around his.

The room that had been given for her use was fill to the seams with sleeping bodies, and bodies that would soon join them. Lord Eomer explained that this was the pitfall of feast nights, there never seemed to be enough beds. He was running out of places to deposit her. He had thought to bring a bed roll up to the weaving solar, but door guard Deor and Lady Baldgwyn were already occupying the space. Lord Eomer closed the door quickly, but Faurwen had already seen, her eyes gleefully wide, and her hand pressed to her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“Every time there is a feast,” Eomer confided once they were away from the door, as if he were irritated, but the mirth in his voice betrayed him.

“What if they’re caught?” Faurwen asked.  
“They were and have been before.”

“And there are no… consequences?” she was laughing, unable to stop.

“Why should there be? They are both widowed and though they may be older, their lives are not yet over,” he looked down at her, “They take comfort in each other.”

“Are…” Faurwen faltered, trying to think the right way to ask the question without sounding prudish or insolent, “Are such couplings common?”

“I do not understand your meaning.”

“For people that are not married to express such free love?”

“It is not uncommon,” he allowed, “People’s personal lives are that. As long as no one is hurt, what harm can come from, what did you call it? Free Love?”

“I do not think such things are common in Gondor.”

“Are they not, corenu?” Eomer asked, his voice not mocking, but near to it, “how many of your country’s married lord keep mistresses, and leave their wives to cold beds?”

A few retorts flitted over her tongue, that it was different, that some wives might do better with their husband’s attentions diverted, but she made no reply, leaning her head wearily on his shoulder. Lord Eomer relaxed a little, leading her along the corridors to the Royal Family Chambers, hoping that she would not have the wrong impression as to his intentions.

Faurwen was barely paying attention to their path, her thoughts going further from her control in time. Lord Eomer was a broad man, even in just his clothes, and she wondered if his armor was thick enough, and what damage that armor could take before he was harmed. She looked up suddenly when Lord Eomer stopped walking in front of a wooden door.

“I am not sure where else I can take you where you would be assured to be safe,” Lord Eomer said slowly, “But I am not asking anything of you.”

She looked up at him, “My lord?”

“And if you are uncomfortable…” he hesitated, before opening the door to his chambers.

She went into the room with no pause, looking around the space. There was a large curtained bed, and a sturdy carpet under the bed, a study in reds and blues. The fire crackled merrily in the fireplace; wood stacked by it. She looked at the wide tapestry against the wall nearest the door seeming to depict the first taking of the Oath of Eorl.

Lord Eomer closed the door and moved quickly away from it, not wanting her to think she was trapped, but was pleased to see that Lady Faurwen seemed impressed by his rooms. He spoke in a low voice, “These are my rooms. No one will disturb you here.” He poured a glass of water and set it on the small table by the bed, “You should be comfortable.”

“I’ve never before been alone with a man in his rooms,” Faurwen admitted.

“As I said- “

“I know,” she interjected, “I know you are an honorable man. Though I find it quite unfair that your rooms are larger than your sisters,” she teased him.

“Yes,” Eomer pulled back the covers for her, and gestured her to come over and sit, “though she has far more rooms than I for her use,” he replied as kneeled to untie her shoes, “How does your leg feel? Any pain?”

“No, a little sore, but I think I feel little.”

“I should not have kept you on your feet so long,” Lord Eomer said, looking up at her for a moment.

Faurwen was silent for a moment, “Are you sure, Eomer?” she asked, not realizing in her slightly drunken state that she had forgotten to use the honorific that his status entitled him to.

“Of what?” he asked, looking up at her again, setting her shoes aside. He had to keep himself in check. He would not touch her if she asked him to. This lady was not his.

“That I should stay here?”

He almost smiled, “I would ask that you do.”

“Will you…? Where will you…?” she blushed at the thought of his body pressed to hers in sleep.

“There is a very comfortable couch in my dressing room,” he replied.

Her fingers picked the pins from her hair, the braids slipping from her head. She began undoing the braids.

Eomer fought the urge to push her hair out of her eyes.

“I must be such a nuisance to you,” she said, laughing a little, “I seem constantly unable to manage on my own.” She looked at him and saw him for a moment as if she was looking at him for the first time, without armor, or the eyes of others on them. She had once mistaken him for a simple knight, a man without title. In so short a time so much had changed, and now looking at him, she saw him against as a man, young and handsome, but with so much sorrow, and the weight of so much on his shoulders. She reached out to him, brushing his hair back out of his face and for a moment he leaned into her hand as she rested her hand against his cheek, his hand covering hers. For a moment, she thought of pulling him into the bed with her, but she couldn’t do that, no matter how much she wanted to when she saw his face relax in her hand. His cares in that moment seemed to fade from his face.

“You are no nuisance to me,” the heir of a kingdom said, kneeling at her feet.

Her thumb stroked his cheek and she felt a fresh warmth bloom in her.

Eomer took the hand from his face, rising to his feet and pressing his lips tenderly to the back of her hand. He crossed the room to the door and opened it, letting out a low whistle, and leaning his shoulder against the door frame while he waited for Caelon, who came bounding happily down the hall and leapt up on the bed, lapping Faurwen’s face before curling up by her feet.

“I hope you do not mind him sleeping in the bed?” Eomer asked.

“Of course not,” Faurwen smiled, petting Caelon’s head, “He is such a good boy.”

“I bid you good night, my lady,” Lord Eomer said, bowing his head before disappearing behind a door into what she assumed was his dressing room, and closing the door behind him.

Once the door shut, she started undoing the ties at the back of her dress as best she could to taking the garment off before climbing back into Lord Eomer’s bed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, thanks so much for the interest in my simple little story! I hope it has given you all as much comfort as it has me.  
> Alright, now I know I have tagged this as "writer fudging with source materials" and I am going to admit that this chapter has some fudging. There is very little information on Lothiriel's background, and in doing what little research I could, I found some background given in the Lord of the Rings Online game, and have put in some adjusted details from that.  
> Further along I am going to have to adjust some character ages if I go through with some ideas I have for background.  
> Well, I hope you enjoy this new chapter! I'll try to keep them updated as often as I can!

Eowyn moved quickly to her brother’s room, opened the door and peeking quickly into the bedchamber. Faurwen lay in her brother’s bed, her dark hair spread back over the pillow. Caelon leapt up and ran from the room to go about whatever business he needed to do. Eowyn closed the door quickly behind her, hoping no one had seen Faurwen sleeping, and went to her, shaking the lady awake.

“What time is it?” Faurwen asked groggily.

“Where is Eomer?”

Faurwen gestured at the door to the dressing room, “Is he not-?”

Eowyn tore across the room, throwing the door roughly open.

At the sound of the door slamming, Eomer startled and ready to fight whatever had woken her before he recognized his sister, “What has happened?”

Looking back and forth between the rooms, Eowyn’s face shifted quickly from rage, to confusion, and then a sense of clarity.

Eomer leapt from the couch, thinking something had happened to Faurwen, but he only caught a quick glimpse of her sitting in his bed before Eowyn shoved him back.

“Do not come out here until you are decent!” Eowyn chided him.

Faurwen had not seen anything but a quick glimpse of a shoulder and his face, but her imagination reeled at the possible levels of indecency.

“Nothing happened, my lady,” Faurwen said quietly. Well, something had happened, but not what Lady Eowyn had thought.

“You will need a fresh dress,” Eowyn said, kneading her hands.

“What is it?” Eomer asked, running a hand through his hair as he left the dressing room, and going to sit at the foot of the bed.

“They said not, but our uncle and Lord Aragorn want to see Faurwen in the Great Hall,” Lady Eowyn said.

“Why?” Faurwen asked, “Am I in some trouble?”

“I slept in the dressing room, and if they need proof, you are welcome to take the bed linens,” Lord Eomer offered, not seeming to thing such a thing was decent, or necessary.

“And my father will likely have my person inspected when I return home,” Faurwen said.

Eomer looked back at Faurwen, “Inspected?”

Faurwen raised a brow at him, her head cocking forward a little.

“It is far too early in the day to think on the horrors of that statement…”

Eowyn wanted to smile at the ease between them, “No, they found something,” she looked between them again, “I will go fetch you a dress, my lady, and your squire, Eomer.”

“But that will take too long,” Eomer complained.

“Consider it your penance for the heart attack you have given me!” Eowyn snapped at him, leaving the room.

Lord Eomer took a deep breath and getting to his feet to sit by her on the side of the bed, wanting to look at her. Faurwen’s chin rested on her knee under the covers. She looked beautiful in his eyes; her hair tousled from sleep.

“How feels your head?” she asked.

“Not as bad as I think it ought,” he admitted, pulling the covers safely over her chest, “You?”

“No pain at all,” she laughed, “I think my family has some eldar blood, and it might help with that.”

“You are so very fortunate,” he looked at her, “May I ask something of you, a request that you are free to deny me?”

“As long as I am free to deny you,” she said, smiling a little.

“May I kiss you?”

She started a little, before leaning toward him, nodding a little. The calloused hand on her cheek was as gentle as the kiss he pressed to her lips. She bit her lips together when he pulled back from her, wanting to savor the feeling of his touch.

The back of his fingers stroked over her cheek, “So there is no misunderstanding,” he said quietly, “I have no intention of paying court to any other lady under this roof.”

She looked back at him, surprised, “My lord- “

He stroked his thumb over her bottom lip, quieting her protests, just looking at her, and making his feelings clear without another word, “I should hope that you would accept my intentions.”

She blushed a little, “I think that I would.”

He smiled, the first true smile she had seen from him, and she found the tugging in her chest not unpleasant.

0x0x0

Faurwen entered the Great Hall, a knot of nerves in her stomach. She remembered the night before well enough and did not think she had acted so freely that she should need to be scolded by the King of the Mark and Lord Aragorn.

The two men stood, looking over something, their faces grim. The two ladies curtsied, glancing to Lord Aragorn for some hint as to the reason that Faurwen had been summoned, but they found none.

“My lady Faurwen,” Théoden King bowed his head a moment before pushing on, “My men were clearing Wormtongue’s rooms and only this morning did we begin sorting through his affects.”

There was a small mahogany chest on the table behind him, large enough for light travel, but little else.

Lord Aragorn picked up a flat parcel of velvet and started toward Faurwen slowly. When he stood before her, he unfolded the velvet to show her the content. A precious silver diadem glinted in the morning light, pearls woven into the fine silver waves of the crown, and a teardrop pearl hung from the center where it would rest against the center of the wearer’s brow.

“Do you know this piece?” Lord Aragorn asked.

Faurwen gasped, “It was my mother’s, and then mine,” she reached out, before stopping, “may I?”

Lord Aragorn carefully passed the velvet over to her, his keen grey eyes watching her closely, “Do you know its’ significance?”

Memories came back to her, too quickly, painfully, the history of her family flooding her mind. She stared up at Lord Aragorn, her eyes wide, “This is entrusted to the highest-ranking lady in the family of the Prince of Dol Amroth,” she faltered, “My father’s family…”

Lord Aragorn nodded slowly, and he bowed his head to her.

“But, my lord, that would mean…” Faurwen started, too many emotions flooding her.

“Princess Lothiriel is the only daughter of Prince Imrahil,” Lord Aragorn said carefully, “A maiden of twenty-two years, fair of complexion with hair the black of a raven’s wing, and eyes a like to the sea of the principality.”

Faurwen, no Lothiriel swallowed hard, her throat dry, as she composed herself, “Those are my things, then.”

“Yes, your highness,” Théoden King bowed his head again.

She waved a hand, dismissing his formality as she walked to the box, looking a moment into it before she touched anything. There were a few small books, a few dresses, a leather harness, and a fresh set of stays, a pale purple nightgown and her stockings and underthings. Tucked in against the side of her dresses were small ceramic portrait disks of her father, her mother, and her brothers, Elphir, Erchirion, and Amrothos. The portrait of her mother must have been the clue to who she was. Of her brothers had sandy brown hair if her memory served, she was the one that most resembled their mother, but for their cheekbones. Her mother had an open heart-shaped face, with the high cheekbones that Lothiriel had always wanted.

“Why did Grima have my things?” Lothiriel asked, picking the dresses up and digging her hand through the folds of the cloth.

“Some servant of Saruman must have brought them shortly after your arrival here,” Théoden King replied, “Perhaps he thought of ransoming you back to your family for intelligence, or some benefit to the Enemy.”

Lothiriel took the two letters that she had hidden in her dresses, and read the names on their faces, before breaking the wax seal on the first, “These are letters of introduction for your majesty, and to Lord Elrond of Rivendell.”

“Then you were going to the elves,” Lady Eowyn said, kneading her hands.

“My father thought I would be safe there, and if I needed to stop in Edoras that I might take rest here on the road if I needed…” Lothiriel’s eyes scanned the letter to Lord Elrond quickly.

“That is such a long journey.”  
“My cousin the Lord Boromir left for the House of Elrond some months past,” Lothiriel said, the memory coming back, “I must write him.”

Lord Aragorn shot a look to Théoden.

“We knew that he had reached Rivendell, but we received no word of his meaning to return. We were left to assume that he had stayed on for some reason,” she caught the look between the noble men, “to take council or make use of the records.”

Lord Aragorn’s eyes found hers, the grim truth clear in his gaze.

“How?” she asked, feeling as if the floor was shifting under her. She was vaguely aware of footfalls on the floor behind her.

“Your highness,” Lord Aragorn started, “you might not want to know- “

She slammed her hand on the tabletop, “I do not recall asking you, my lord, for an opinion of my capacity for tragedy!” she called back at him, before taking a deep breath, “I am sorry, my lord, but I need to know. How did my… how did my cousin die?”

“Our company was attacked by a party of Uruk-hai,” Lord Aragorn said, “The same party that we were tracking when we came here to Rohan. Your cousin died valiantly defending the weaker members of our company.”

“Was it a quick death?”

Lord Aragorn hesitated before answering, “No. He was shot by three large arrows.”

Lothiriel swallowed, her hands clasped together in front of her stomach. She remembered Boromir smiling and jesting at the absurdity of keeping the Court of the Stewardship open during the times of war, but he had laughed and said that the ladies looked well enough that he could excuse the oversight. Her only living cousin, Faramir ever in his brother’s shadow, had swept her off to dance and she had laughed and turned around the room. She had been such a stupid child, even a few months before. She hadn’t imagined that the war would ever really touch her. Her heart wept with the passing of her cousin, and that she would never see him again, but another strange sense of peace come over her with her grief, and she knew there was something suddenly that she was not sure had ever been made publicly known.

“My lord uncle will be devastated. Has word yet reached him?” she asked, straightening her back, not wanting to give up the information that she was now certain of.

“I know not, though I expect he soon will. Gandalf rode with Peregrin Took to Minas Tirith this morning,” Lord Aragorn said.

Lothiriel leaned her hand on the table a moment, trying to collect her thoughts, the image of Boromir dead coming to her mind. She closed her eyes against the possible sight of her cousin’s dead body.

She winced trying to focus on the happy memories that she had slowly regained but with the names she now knew, and the small relief that accompanied them.

Lord Eomer’s hand was on her shoulder, a comforting presence, “my lady, I am sorry for your loss.”

She looked up at him, covering his hand with her own, and giving it a squeeze.

“Lord Eomer,” Théoden said, “May I present the Princess Lothiriel of Dol Amroth?”

A small change came over Eomer’s countenance as he took in the gravity of his uncle’s words. She was not simply some member of the gentry, but The Stewart of Gondor’s niece, and the cousin of one of the most renowned warriors of their age. Her family was distantly of Numenor descent. She was some far, gilded thing.

His hand fell from her shoulder and he bowed low, his eyes leaving her.

She offered him her hand to rise, hoping that he would not change toward her, “My lord, may I ask you to escort me as I take my things to my room. This diadem, though simple in appearance is one of the principal jewels of my kin, and I must ensure it is safe. Thank you, Théoden King,” She picked up her box and left the room without thought before turning, “May I be excused?”

Théoden nodded, “Of course, your highness.”

She turned again, hoping that Lord Eomer would follow her. She needed to speak to him, to anyone really. Her head hurt and she wanted to lay down, but she couldn’t stand to stop moving.

She didn’t close the door to her room and set the box of her things on the bed, before backing away until the wall was behind her, her breath coming out in heavy gasps.

“Your highness,” Eomer started, closing the door.

“Please do not call me that,” she begged, “I think I can stand it from anyone else, but we are alone, and I do not know that I will survive such high-brow propriety from you.”

Eomer tilted his head at her, “Your highness?”

She tore her eyes away from him, “I cannot bear that you might see me differently than you did this morning. I am the same woman you kissed.”

“You do not think that your identity would change anything?” he asked.

“How does it?”

“You are a princess, bred of a noble line beyond me. Your father would never accept that I might think to court you.”

“Eomer, please,” she begged again, “Do not think yet of failure when you have not yet even tried,” she rubbed her fingertips against her brow anxiously. He had only just even told her that he would pay her court, and she had been so happy at the thought, “I cannot be in charge of my suitors, but I can reject those that displease me. If I need to reject everyone for the right man, I would do so.”

He looked genuinely surprised.

“What? Had you not yet realized that I am not keen to be a pawn for the amusement of men?” She knew that she would have before she had come here.

That slim ghost of a smile touched his features, and his hands reached out to clasp her face, “I am sorry that I doubted your ferocity.”

“I think you doubt yourself, my lord, and I will not stand for false modesty,” her eyes were tearing a little.

He pressed his lips to her forehead before resting his own against that spot, “are you alright?”

She had not expected the overly intimate moment that she was now in, though she enjoyed it, his hands smoothing so gently over her arms.

She stared up at him, “Boromir was my father’s sister’s son,” she said slowly.

“Yes, and he was a great warrior. You must grieve for your cousin.”

She took a deep breath, “And I think that my uncle had wanted me to marry him,” she said, not meeting his eyes.

“But he is a very close kinsman, he was…” Eomer pulled back a little to look at her.

“I think he had consented, but I… I had agreed to consider it, but my uncle…” she shook her head, “I am honestly relieved. I loved Boromir, but I could not love him that way.”

Eomer was looking at her so strangely, a darkness behind his eyes.

“I am a terrible person, am I not?” she shook a little, “That even as a man who was like a brother to me is dead and I think of my own comfort.”

His hand smoothed over her cheek, “Would you have married him?”

“I do not think I could have unless I was forced. I do not think my father approved, either, but without my outright denying the offer, he could do little with the Steward of Gondor asking.”

“Then your father would put you in this position? To refuse a powerful lord without help?” Eomer was clearly irritated, “He would expect more courage from you than he would extend on your behalf?”

“I cannot say,” she said, “I do not think it was ever a public thing. Please say nothing of it.”

He was looking at her, a gaze of sympathy piercing her soul. Her hand found his cheek, “I will have my own way on the subject of my marriage, you can mark my words.”

“How did you travel with that box,” Eomer asked, looking away from her, trying to keep his face composed, and pull her mind from her own thoughts.

She smiled and opened the box to pull out the leather harness out of her box, and holding it out to him, showing him the entire belt system, “The box fits in here and it can be held in place as I ride.”

“Are such things common in your city?”

“For peddlers, but ladies do not carry things, so to speak,” she smiled, putting the harness back in the wooden case.

“Your father must have feared greatly for you, if he would send you on so dangerous a journey as that, alone.”

Lothiriel traced her hands absently over the box, pushing it back from her towards the wall, “I mean to take the air. You would join me, my lord?”

“If you bid, my lady,” that thin trace of a smile shone in his eyes, “Oh, pardon me, Your Highness.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, pinching his hand, “You forget that you will be King here someday. If you mean to cause me some level of embarrassment by use of honorific, I would be more than happy to do the same. Only remember that I am a princess born, and I will not be embarrassed as I think you would be. We are as equals in so far as I could say.”

“Then I am pleased to find us so,” he offered her his arm, and she accepted it. When they were out in the open air and the wind, he thought a moment before asking, “As Princess of Dol Amroth, would you accept me as a suitor?”

“It would be a smart political decision,” she allowed, her mind trying to find a way that she could keep him and convince her father to consider him seriously.

“Would that I had been born to humble country farmers. I would then be certain that affections given to me, were given honestly,” Eomer said in a groaning voice.

“You would have made a terrible farmer,” she retorted, not rising to his bait, “You are far too impatient. I can almost see you in my mind, dressed in homespun and yelling at your crops to grow faster and to give a better yield.”

The grunt of a laugh left his throat, “True enough, I have never been able to sit still.”

“Even as you seem so stoic?” she smiled, “How fiercely the current of your mind must flow.”

“But you do like me for myself?” he asked, “You have not simply been humoring due to my position?”

Lothiriel looked up at him, shocked. It was the first true sense she had from him of a genuine felling of insecurity.

He looked back at her, “The Ladies of the South are said to flirt and tease, if only to keep their claws sharp.”

She stopped her steps and turned over his large hand in hers and traced her fingertips over the broad expanse of his palm, as he had done a few days earlier to her own, and her wide pale eyes and her soft touch giving him the answer he needed. He raised his hands to clasp her face in a gentle and secure grasp before touching his forehead to hers again, ignoring the eyes of the villagers, his own dark eyes closing a moment. Her heart seemed to sing in her breast. He pulled back from her and looked a little embarrassed as if he had been moved by some will other than his own.

“Do you know how lovely you are?” he asked in a low voice.

“I have a notion of it,” she smiled, reaching to touch his cheek.

The look he gave her was as tender as his touch, “I may not have the courtly words to which you are used, and which you deserve, yet I should hope that you will take my earnestness in their place,” he took up their pace again.

“I would rather know that there is true value in your speech, my lord,” she said.

“When this war is over, I will speak to your father and have this done properly.”

“You have known me less than two weeks,” she laughed a little.

“And I seek to wait and to know you better, and in turn let you know me. I fear that if my action is not swift that you would be taken by with someone else.”

“Are you inferring that I could do better?”

“Oh, undoubtedly. And I know you mean to have your own way, but I would in truth rather have you choose someone else before I would rush you into a life you might come to regret in time.”

“Could you expand on that?” she asked, confused.

“You deserve the finest things, every silk and jewel should be yours, but my lands have few enough uses for such things.”

“Perhaps I find the simplicity more charming.”

“And if you chose so, I would be a happy man for it. But be sure, Lothiriel before you commit yourself.”


	9. Chapter 9

Lothiriel packed up her small box as soon as she saw the beacons lit on the mountain, knowing that the Rohirrim’s Eoreds would ride to Gondor’s aid, even if the King had held a few, understandable reservations. She fixed the box into the harness and pulled it over her shoulders and buckling it across her small breast, before running to the Great Hall, her wool cloak over her shoulders and the box to guard her from the wind. It was custom here that the ladies of the court would ride with the army to the encampment and give blessing to the men before they rode to war.

“Eomer!” she called out when she saw him on the step, running a final check over Firefoot’s tack.

His head swiveled at her voice, holding his hand out to her.

She clasped it.

“I must ride out to seek men for the battle,” he said, “Are you riding to Dunharrow?”

She nodded, “They are preparing supplies now.”

“I will find you there in two days.”

Lothiriel squeezed his hand, drawing his confusion.

“What has you so worried, corenu?” he asked, the ghost of his smile gleaming in his eyes.

“Please be careful,” was all she could manage. She did not want to tell him that she was scared.

Her brothers were with the Gondorian Army, she knew, and her father was at Minas Tirith with her Uncle. Her cousin would be in Ithilien, but if the beacons were lit, Faramir would be in Osgiliath. She was at risk of losing every man that she loved, and the man that she was learning to love into the vile bargain.

She pulled him down without a thought and kissed his cheek, “two days.”

There were a few whoops from some of his men, but he paid them no mind.

“Go help Lady Baldgwyn, my lady,” he almost smiled, and she wished that he would. Having seen his smile the once, she wanted to see it as oft as she could manage.

She curtsied quickly and hurried back to help where she could.

0x0x0

The ride to Dunharrow encampment was a few days, but with the supplies that they were moving the path was not fast in the riding, for going too fast would risk throwing a cartwheel, or losing things therein.

“I do not think I like the look of that mountain pass,” Lothiriel said to Lady Eowyn as they helped set up their tent’s interior, beds and such.

The two princesses sharing had seemed a simple enough decision.

Lothiriel stared over her shoulder at the pass and felt a tremble down her spine. She didn’t want her back to the space for some undiscernible reason.

“They say that it is haunted,” Lady Eowyn said as if it was nonsense, “They say that the Army that broke their oath to Isildur lived in that mountain thousands of years ago. Isildur cursed them to never rest until they fulfill the oath sworn and come to the aid of the King of Gondor.”

“What?” Lothiriel asked, her eyes even wider, “Cave Ghosts? Oh, by Elbereth, I will not sleep this night.”

“Oh, it is nothing more than an old story they tell children, so they behave,” Lady Eowyn laughed.

“Then someone ought to tell the horses,” Lothiriel retorted, settling a bed roll out over the cot.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

“Suppose I do?” Lothiriel stared at Lady Eowyn, as if waiting to be mocked.

“You would have more sympathy on that score from my brother than you will take from me,” Lady Eowyn laughed, pushing a bundle under her cot, “He has always been superstitious.”

“Why?”

Lady Eowyn sat on her bed, smiling knowingly, “When he was not even yet out of curls, he claimed that there was some apparition or other at our father’s manor in Aldburg.”

“I thought I saw one in Edoras,” Lothiriel said, settling next to her friend.

“You never did,” Lady Eowyn scoffed.

“No, down in the dungeon, I swear.”

“What did it look like?” Lady Eowyn’s eyes narrowed a little.

“Pale as death it was, all adorned in black, and he leaned in close to me,” Lothiriel leaned in closer to Lady Eowyn for affect, her fingers hooked like claws, “and it opened his dreadful mouth and he said….”

“He said?”

“’It is Lord Wormtongue to you, you wretch,’” she said in an oily voice that mimicked the disgraced advisor.

Eowyn smacked Lothiriel with her pillow.

Lothiriel laughed, fending off the attack and going to look out at the camp.

“Do you think there is much hope?”

“Of seeing a ghost. I hope not,” Lothiriel said, her fingers working the tent flap nervously. She knew that had not been what Lady Eowyn had meant.

“No, of victory.”

Lothiriel did not answer immediately, “There is more to a battle than numbers.”

“But numbers are certainly a help.”

Lothiriel looked back, “There are soldiers in Minas Tirith. If they are sieged, they will not be much help. If your men can even just pull the enemy back from the walls…” Lothiriel smiled, trying to hold on to the hope that was dwindling a little. The sense of helplessness was closing in on her again.

“I wonder how many of our women will wait for men that will not return,” Lady Eowyn joined Lothiriel by the tent’s door.

Lothiriel was trying not to think on that, knowing the odds that she was going to lose someone in this battle, at least one someone.

“But at least those that give their lives will be remembered for their sacrifices,” Lady Eowyn said, holding the romantic notion of battle tight.

Pale grey blue eyes met hazel green eyes and Lothiriel did not know how to tell Lady Eowyn that she should count herself lucky to be safe from what would come. Later her brother would be far blunter about the realities of battle, but Lothiriel did not possess the words to explain it to her. The memories of the ambush still felt too fresh for her liking, and she never wanted to be close to anything of the sort. The smells alone were enough to turn her stomach.

0x0x0

Lothiriel knew that in a way Lady Eowyn had been right, and she would not tell her how she was wrong, if it gave her some sense of comfort. She wished she could stop thinking, and that her whole body could stop feeling so cold. She wished that she could sleep, but she could barely even lay still, her fear of some paranormal nightmare, colliding over her general sense of anxiety.

She pulled the cloak over her lavender nightgown and shut it close against the chill in the night air, and she left her tent, not bothering with her shoes, though within minutes she regretted it, as the cold ground and dewy grass chilled her feet and ankles. Her feet were almost numb by the time she slipped into Eomer’s tent.

He sat up startled when he saw her.

“I find I cannot sleep,” she said in a low, nervous voice.

“Nor can I, or likely anyone else,” he said, “It is common on the eve of battle.” He wore a simple linen tunic and he reached out a hand, beckoning her over to him.

Lothiriel kneeled by him on the ground, resting her head against his knee. His fingers gently stroked her hair, smoothing a few curling tendrils back from her face, hesitantly at first, but he seemed to draw strength and confidence in the simple, yet profoundly intimate gesture of playing with her braided hair.

“Are you afraid?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, “We all are, but you push past the fear.”

“And if you cannot?”

He did not answer, but for a moment, his fingers stopped moving.

She turned her head to look up at him, her eyes misting a little.

Eomer’s face softened, “I am not going to die, corenu,” he said, his voice soft. He smoothed the back of his fingers gingerly over his cheek.

“How can you know?”

He looked away, “Because I think I would fight through all of Mordor to get back to you.”

Lothiriel sat back on her heels, “Why?”

“Because I feel at peace with you,” his fingers found her face again in the dim light, “I will not tell you to set aside any worry. You will worry, but I promise to come back. I am not through irritating you, corenu.”

“That word does not mean friend,” she said.

“No,” he admitted after a moment.

“What does it mean?”

“’Dear one’,” he said.

She smiled a little, “Then, I am dear to you?”

“You know that you are,” he was looking deeply at her seeming to pour every shred of tenderness that he could muster up into that gaze.

“Eomer… I…” she said, but he stopped her, stroking his thumb against her lower lip.

“You do not need to say anything or feel that you need to reciprocate. You seem to like me and that is enough. I know that you feel…” he closed his eyes, as if trying to find the correct words, and seemed to give up, “No lie should fall from these lips.”

“You are a good man,” she said simply, looking at him, reaching up to his face, pulling him closer. She pressed her lips to his, softly kissing him. His hands on her cheeks were gentle, his thumbs stroking her cheeks, and holding her to him for a few long glorious moments. He pressed a few smaller kisses to her lips before drawing back a little to look at her, his breath coming out in low shallow breaths.

She shifted a little awkwardly, pushing the cloak off her shoulders, her eyes shifting down a moment before coming back up to his.

He looked almost confused until he saw her fingers working the ties at the front of her nightgown, his eyes took in her hands for a moment before his hands moved to stay hers, pulling them away from the ties, “there is no need for that.”

“You are important to me,” she said quietly, “I do not know how else to…”

“Not like this,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Why? Do you not find me- “

“I want you,” he assured her, “but I do not mean to take your maidenhead in a battle encampment,” he looked down at her hands, “at very least, I would mean to ensure you a more comfortable bed.”

She laughed a little, the color coming up in her cheeks.

“I do not want you to compromise yourself for me. I will not tarnish your reputation so carelessly as that.”

“When you come back- “

“When I come back, I ask only for a kiss. I will not bed you unless you are my wife. You are more precious than that,” he said, implying that he meant his words in a broader sense than he stated. Her body, her person, was more than just a body, it was a possession of her state.

Lothiriel looked away from him, feeling embarrassed, “I think that I want you.”

“If I take you to bed, the walls will be much thicker, corenu,” he said, almost whispering, “for I would mean to make you sing.”

“If you can,” she said, trying to regain her composure.

“I am going to kiss you again,” he smiled at the coy look she gave him.

She knew that there were other ways that she could please him, but she wasn’t sure what those things were, but she was certain that he would stay any further advances.

He pulled her cloak back around her, and pressed another kiss against her forehead, “You’re frozen.”

“I will be alright,” she said, rolling her eyes a little at his concern, “I only wanted to offer you some comfort.”

“You bring me comfort enough,” Eomer said, “There is something I would ask you, and as ever, you are free to reject the request.”

She looked up at him, waiting to hear him.

“Stay by me tonight,” he helped her to her feet, wrapping his arms around her as if to warm her.

She kept her eyes on his, knowing his strong embrace would loosen if she pulled away from him, and she felt as if her chest would burst suddenly. She leaned into him, her head resting against his chest, feeling the warmth of his body, and the safety she felt in his arms. He kissed the top of her head, before leading her to his bed, and wrapping the cloak firmly around her before pulling the covers over her. She curled her feet to keep the icy skin from him. He wrapped his arms around her.

She rolled awkwardly to look at him, “I thought men all had uncontrollable urges.”

Eomer looked at her, his arm bent up to support his head, “Is that what they tell you?”

She leaned up on her elbow, “And that is why we have to be wary.” There was a nagging sense that there was something she was trying not to remember there.

“Any man unable to control himself is not a man, but a beast.”

“Do you think such men are a scary story to tell young maidens?”

“No, I know they are real,” he was looking at her, “But I think you could dispatch any such villain, and if you should need it, I would do so for you.”

She looked down, a fingernail stroking at a ripple in the linen, “Is that mountain really haunted?”

“Probably,” Eomer said.

“Your sister says it isn’t.”

“She tends to logic,” Eomer shifted a tendril of curls from her eyes, “if a spirit walked up to her, or even through her, she would find a reason not to believe it had happened.”

Lothiriel laughed, resting her head back against the pillow, “I do not think I have a mind to see anything of the sort.”

“There is no controlling such things as that,” he teased her in a low voice, “The dead will be seen when they wish to be seen.”

She smacked his chest with the back of her hand, “you are going to give me bad dreams.”

“Then I suppose I will have to protect you,” he lay his head down on the pillow beside her, his arm pulling her close, his nose brushing against hers, "Even if though if a ghost meant to attack, my fist would simply go through its face."


	10. Chapter 10

Théoden King rose before sun, looking over the plans for the battle, moving pieces and markers on the map of the Pelennor Fields, hoping he had guessed correctly that Lord Aragorn would indeed return with the reinforcements needed for success. He left his tent to wake his nephew. There was still much to discuss before they set out for Minas Tirith.

Though it did not surprise him to see Princess Lothiriel in Eomer’s arms, even as he still had not truly expected it. Théoden smiled a little, tugging the covers up over her shoulder before gently waking his nephew, and jerking his head to the tent’s opening before leaving.

Moments later, Eomer emerged, dressed, his face the picture of nervousness, “Uncle…”

“We should discuss strategies for the battle,” Théoden said, “May I recommend that you have Princess Lothiriel go back to her own bed before the men wake.”

“We only slept, uncle,” Eomer said.

Théoden smiled, “I’m sure, but the gossip of soldiers would rival that of chamber maids,” Théoden pressed his nephew’s shoulder, “I am simply glad to see you happy, son.”

0x0x0

Lothiriel woke to Eomer gently stroked her face, kneeling by her side. “Good morning,” she whispered, looking up at him in the dim light.

“You should get back before you are missed,” he whispered.

She nuzzled her face into the hand, before sitting up, “Are you leaving soon?”

“In a few hours, but if I do not see you before we set out, know that I stand by my promise to return to you,” he pressed his lips to her forehead.

She pulled the yellow ribbon from the end of her braid and pressed it to his hand, “Take it as my favor?”

“Thank you, my lady,” he kissed her quickly, before gently pushing her toward the door.

She pulled her hood up over her head, glancing over her shoulder before rushing away, creeping as quietly through the camp as she could, hurrying to her bed, and hoping that Lady Eowyn would still be sleeping. Luck was not with her.

Lady Eowyn smirked, “where have you been?”

Lothiriel stared at her friend, dressed in leather armor and chainmail. She stared at Lady Eowyn, sinking to sit on the edge of her cot, “Eowyn…”

“No one knows you were gone, if that is what you are concerned with. Are you in love with my brother?”

“I am uncertain as to my own feelings,” Lothiriel admitted, “But I like his company. It just… feels right.”

“He has made quite a few women feel right, from what I’ve heard,” Eowyn laughed.

Lothiriel looked away, having not given much thought to what Eomer’s life had been like before she came into it. He was handsome and free from any entanglement. Why should he not have known the company of other women? It did not seem to be as frowned upon for women to give their affections freely. She knew that her own brothers had not remained chaste, and only one was at present married.

“Oh, I did not mean-” Lady Eowyn said, seeing Lothiriel’s face change a little.

“You are meaning to ride with the army,” Lothiriel said, knowing not to question Eowyn too fiercely, but she also felt the need to focus on something else to keep her mind from swirling into a jealous whirl.

“Yes. Do not try to stop me.”

“Well, I know not what you might think to do with your buckles done so wrong as that,” Lothiriel shook her head, raising and coming to adjust and tighten the armor, “I used to do this for Amrothos. He is only a few years older than I.”

“Your brother?”

“Youngest of the three,” Lothiriel smiled, “And with three brothers, I am not unaware of the trouble your brother has likely gotten into before.”

“I do not mean to turn you from Eomer,” Eowyn said, wincing a little at the cultural differences of their societies, “It is considered right that he has done well by his lovers.”

“What a strange way to recommend him,” Lothiriel smirked through the blush heating her face.

“I like you better than the other women that he has been tied to, even if only by rumor.”

“Well, we did not… do anything of the sort. So perhaps…”

“You went to him and only slept?”

“He said he did not want to compromise my virtue.” What sin had she committed in her life to be trapped in this conversation? Where had she gone wrong to be speaking to the sister of the man she was falling in love with, about his prowess and romantic past. She focused her attention on the armor.

“And he let you sleep by his side?”

“That is all that happened,” Lothiriel frowned, “I can’t do much else. None of this armor fits you well, my lady. It isn’t safe if you cannot move properly in the battle, you might come to harm.”

“I am going.”

“I know, but please be careful. As careful as you can be.”

“You do not want to ride out with the men?” Lady Eowyn asked.

“I would be ill-suited to the charge.”

“I saw what you did to that Dunlender. You nearly took his ear off.”

"There is a large difference between hand-to-hand combat, and a battle,” Lothiriel replied, looking at Eowyn, “And I have clearly proven myself as useless in the latter.”

There had been things and actions that her muscles had recalled without knowing, but now she knew that her brothers and her cousins had taught her so that she might be able to dispatch anyone meaning her a direct harm, and how she had reveled in it. She had loved the idea of power in her hands, but it had done little to help anyone. She had not been able to save Theodred, and she still did not know that she could live with herself. If what Eowyn’s words were true, Lothiriel could be courted by the future King of Rohan because she was a useless girl. The future of Dol Amroth would be unchanged by her death, but by her inability to save one life, a man who seemed to dislike regulation and restraint, who had lived happily as a marshal had his life changed. She expressed few of these thoughts to anyone, but Eowyn seemed to see her anxiety.

“You didn’t kill Theodred,” Eowyn said suddenly, “He was recuperating well. Lady Baldgwyn left him to fetch a salve, and he was dead when she returned, his lips were already blue, and she suspects there was poison on his lips.”

“He was murdered then?”

“You must carry not the weight of a sin that was never your own. You must live, and if I fall- “

“You will not,” Lothiriel grasped Eowyn’s hand.

“If anything happens to me, please take care of Eomer.”

“I will not ask, but once, please reconsider. He only speaks so harshly and as an idiot because he loves you. I do not think he would survive if any ill befell you,” Lothiriel said.

Eowyn shook her head, “Then I suppose I will need to be careful,” she smirked, “And besides, Master Meriadoc and I will keep each other safe.”

Lothiriel held her tongue, “then be safe, please.”

The two princesses embraced and Lothiriel pressed a kiss to her friend’s cheek, adding another name to the list of people that she did not lose, and knowing the odds of them all surviving became lower with each new addition. Her Father, her three brothers, her cousin, the man she might love, and now her friend.


	11. Chapter 11

Théoden peered into the Princesses’ tent, seeing only Princess Lothiriel, tidying her possessions. When she looked up, her eyes widened before she smiled, “Your majesty,” she dropped in a quick curtsy, “Has the time come?”

“Indeed,” The King smiled, “Where is my niece?”

“She left a little while past. I am not sure where she went,” Lothiriel said, trying to keep her face bland, “I can go seek her, my lord?”

“No, she has been behaving strangely, and I do not wish to further trouble her,” Théoden looked downcast and Lothiriel wanted to kick herself. What if the King fell in battle, and had not been able to see his niece again for that moment that could mean so much.

“Is there any other way I might help?” she asked, tilting her head a little bit.

He studied her a moment, “My nephew seems fond of you.”

Lothiriel turned her eyes down as she began to blush again.

“With your consent, I would speak with your father, and see if he would be accepting of my nephew as a suitor.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Théoden studied the girl, noting her blush and clear anxiety and nervousness. She seemed so young somehow, and when she looked back up at him, he felt some strange sense of her anxiety, “Fear not for your kin and for your friends, my lady, from what I know of your family, they are great warriors.”

She nodded, “I will do my best, my lord, to set aside my concerns.”

The King looked at her, “It is a hard thing to do. We ride out now, your highness,” he bowed, "please be well. I should hope that we will meet again.”

0x0x0

News good or bad, could only come as quickly as the horse that might carry it back to Dunharrow. Lothiriel tried to bear that in mind as she paced the encampment like a wild cat trapped in a cage those three days. She couldn’t stop moving, even as Lady Baldgwyn called her to sit and work on some needlepoint to take her mind off the battle, but Lothiriel didn’t give her an answer, and kept her eyes on the horizon toward Minas Tirith.

Lady Eowyn’s absence had been noticed soon after the army left, but Lothiriel said nothing, and no one seemed to think to ask her anything about it. She hated the long waiting and wondered if perhaps she should have followed the army as Eowyn had done, but she knew that she would only have been hurt, or else in the way. The long night passed, and she prayed silently to Elbereth to keep every person in her affections safe, with an illogical need to do something to help.

The moon had just passed its peak when she mounted Leofric, leaving a note that she would send a rider with news as soon as she could. She ended up crossing paths with the rider, who slowed as he approached her, eyeing her suspiciously before he saw her, and recognized her.

“Lady Lothiriel?”

“Aye?” she asked, recognizing his armor as Rohirric.

“I am Fuldan, son of Fulmund,” he said, “We have succeeded in the battle.”

“Victory?” she asked, relief flooding her along with dread, “Any casualties.”

“Of course, my lady. Théoden King has fallen.”

She gasped, her hands tightening on her reins.

“And Lady Eowyn is injured, but I know little more than that.”

She nodded, “Get back to Dunharrow, fast as you can. I’ll ride ahead to get aid set up where I can.”

He bowed his head and rode off, riding hard through the night. Eowyn was injured, but she did not think Fuldan would know how gravely, but he had not said anything of Eomer. Eomer must have survived the battle. He would not know anything of her family either, likely.

She rode until she saw the white stone of Minas Tirith as the sun began to rise, and the devastation of the battle was still laying out over the Pelennor fields, and her stomach turned for a moment as she forced herself to ride on to the gates of the city, a guard at the gates holding out his hand.

“I am Lothiriel, Daughter of Prince Imrahil, The Princess of Dol Amroth, and you will let me pass!” she said with all of the authority that she could muster.

Lothiriel rode through the city up to the citadel and gave the Leofric’s reins over to a page to have him taken to the stables, “Cool him down and feed this horse, he has borne me well.” She smoothed her hand over his sweating neck. “Hannon le, mellon nin,” she pressed her forehead to Leofric’s, his wide eyes heavy with exhaustion.

She hurried into the citadel and did not slow until she found Lord Aragorn in the throne room, the new King of Gondor looked almost at a loss as to how to manage the supportive aid that would be needed, both for medical care and for the refugees of war. Lothiriel wondered if men ever really gave a forethought to the costliness of war, not only the weapons and armor, and lives lost, but the things that came after the blood bath. They needed beds and bandages, and food.

The princess did her best to help with this specific thing, taking charge where she could as she looked over the ledgers and records for the stores.

“Send out word for any linens that can be spared for bandages. Bring any refugees into the city, and we can put them in any large public houses, to keep the relief centralized,” she looked over a city map, “The library here should be able to house many of them,” she looked to Lord Aragorn, hoping that she wasn’t overstepping.

Lord Aragorn smiled, nodding, and signing off on her suggestions.

“Write to my father in Dol Amroth, and see what supplies he can send,” she went on.

“Your father is in the city,” Lord Aragorn said, looking up suddenly, “Have you not yet seen him?”

“No. I came directly,” she replied, relieved of her father’s survival, “My brothers?” she asked.

“They are all well, some minor wounds, but they seem healthy,” Lord Aragorn looked at her carefully, “Lord Eowyn is at the Houses of Healing, injured, but she lives.”

“Lord Eomer?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the store listings.

“He has not left her side. Perhaps you might see if you could get him to take some rest,” Lord Aragorn said, “though I would advise caution. He has taken this hard.”

Lothiriel nodded, “I will go forth and volunteer at the Houses of Healing when we get the rest of this sorted out. I am certain they will need more hands. You should call for anyone that had any sort of healing knowledge come forth if they have not already.” This war was not over, she knew, and they would need all of the men they could muster back to fighting form.

“I will have the Steward of the House show you to your rooms.”

Lothiriel started at first. She had already been told that her lord Uncle the Steward of Gondor had gone mad and was dead, her lone surviving cousin alive by sheer chance. Her mind still whirled agonizingly and for a moment, she had thought that she had misunderstood, and that her uncle was alive, before she recognized the older man in his livery.

She knew her room, and as she followed the Steward along, she found herself remembering the passages and the corridors that she had passed through. Memories flooded her almost every place she let her eyes fall.

Her rooms were just as she had left them, the white walls gleaming coldly in the light. She was tired and she wanted to fall into the large feather bed, but she knew she would find no rest if she did.

The tapestries that hung over the stone walls were yellow and gold and blue seascapes and they gave her some comfort, as she could remember finding them and bringing them here because these rooms had been set aside for her use alone as a member of the Steward’s family, and the close friendship between her father and Denethor. She took a deep breath, sitting at the vanity after setting the oak box on the table top before taking a few wooden hair forks from the box she kept them in and pinned her hair up in a bun before stripping her dirty dress and looking through the armoire in her dressing room for something simple that she could wear and an apron to wear over the dress. She tied a scarf over her hair and headed out from her room to the Houses of Healing.

0x0x0

“You need to eat something, Eomer,” Lothiriel said gently, stooping down in front of him a few hours later when she could take a brief break from her labors. It was all worse than she had imagined it would be, and she needed him to look at her, and tell her that she was strong, or acknowledge her in some way, selfish a thing as that was. He didn’t look up from his sister’s unmoving form, his face contorted in an agony that ripped at her heart. Lothiriel set a plate of food down by him, reaching out to touch him.

He flinched, turning his eyes on her as if he hadn’t heard her at all. His eyes seemed wider than they should have been as they washed over her.

“Eomer?” she asked, something turning in her stomach.

“Can you heal her?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“I think it might be beyond my skills,” she admitted, shifting Eowyn’s hair back from her face to feel for a fever, and finding one. She touched a set of dark marks on Eowyn’s forearm.

“Then do not touch her,” he shoved her hands away from Eowyn, almost stooping as if to protect her from any attack that Lothiriel might be plotting. The eyes he turned back on her were a strange mixture of rage and hollowness.

“It’s only me…” she said softly.

“I know you,” Eomer spat back, “and you knew, did you not, that she meant to come here, to ride to her death.”

Lothiriel paled, not answering.

“And you did nothing to stop her, did you?” his lips curled, “You have killed her by your failure to keep her safe.”

She crumpled in herself.

“She is my only family.” His voice sounded weak.

“I know,” her hand shook a little as she reached out to him again, hoping to comfort him in some small way.

He pulled away from her before his hand reached out to push her away from him, “Go tend to your own kin, though I might tell you to keep clear of them if your luck holds true as it has thus far.”

He had been difficult, and he had spoken freely without a thought for the effect of his words, but he had never been purposefully cruel to her. His words carved into her like a knife, and she tried to console herself that he was not himself. She could see the madness in his eyes, but it did nothing to stop the pain in her heart.

“Please eat, my lord, and take some rest,” she stood, and curtsied, looking at the marks again on Eowyn’s arm before walking away. She hoped that he would call out to her that he was sorry, or that he hadn’t meant it, but he was silent.

Lothiriel scribbled out a quick note and rolled it tightly before going out to find a royal page, instructing him to get the message to the king as fast as he could. If Eowyn had been infected with Black Breath, Aragorn would know more to how to treat her than Lothiriel would.


	12. Chapter 12

The stone wall was the only support she could trust, as Lothiriel needed to catch her breath before she broke down into tears. She couldn’t stand it anymore, and she would burn her clothes when this was over. The blood stains would never come out, and she would never be able to wear them again without remembering the horrors that felt burned into her mind. Her legs were giving out under her and she slid down the wall.

“You have never, I would guess, seen the like of this, your highness,” a kindly and weary but familiar voice said as someone came to sit by her on the floor.

“Sir Eothain,” Lothiriel smiled weakly.

“They never tell you of the courage needed after battle,” he held a roll out to her, rubbing the bandage around his head.

“I would say this was worse than the Hornburg, but I know I only nursed flesh-wounds. We have midwives performing amputations,” she picked at the roll, trying to force herself to eat.

“You could choose not to be here, princess. You are a stronger and better person than you seem to think.”

Lothiriel stared ahead, “How is Lady Eowyn?”

“She is walking and seems to be of good health, and Eomer King is recovering as well,” Eothain looked at her, his eyes grave, “Wounds of the mind can take longer to heal.”

“Battlefield madness is a hard thing,” she said in a low voice, “Just ensure that he eats regularly, and that he is taking rest.”

“You have not seen him these two days?”

“I have not left my duties but to take a few hours of sleep when I cannot stand any longer.”

“You might try to see him, for you might have a better chance at telling the King to take care of himself. He had been in a foul mood.”

“I can only imagine,” she muttered, forcing down the last of the roll, her throat feeling dry, “I have to get back, sir.”

He stood, offering her his hand, “I will tell the King that your duties have kept you busy.”

“Tell him whatever it please you to,” she said simply.

“He has been seeking you, your highness.”

Lothiriel made no answer, still hurting from Eomer’s words, needing to get back to work, something to keep her mind occupied.

0x0x0

By that night, she had been relieved of her duty, as the need for volunteers lessened. She was tired and weak, and her stomach still turned at the thought of food. She pulled her ruined, dirty dress off and scrubbed the blood from her hands in the basin as well as she could. Catching sight of her face in the looking glass, she blanched. Her face was pale, and dark shadows tinted the flesh under her eyes, and a smear of blood was spread over her cheek. Her fingers plucked at the pins in her hair, letting the dark cloud of her hair free before she finally fell into her bed, and pulled the coverlet over her head, and was almost immediately asleep.

The knocking at the door, rousing her from her deep sleep and she stared about the sun-drenched room in confusion.

“My darling girl are you decent?” her father’s voice called from behind the door in her sitting room.

“I am still abed, but come in,” Lothiriel called, sitting up, still half asleep.

The door opened and Prince Imrahil came to sit by her on the edge of her bed, his eyes fixed on her, as if he had not been sure that he would find his daughter there. He reached out a shaking hand to touch her cheek, before embracing her, “You should not have yet returned.”

“I waited until the battle was over. Are my brothers…?”

“They live and are well,” Imrahil smiled, “to have all of my children alive and well is a blessing that I should never mean to take for granted again,” he looked at her, “I have heard that you have been staying at Edoras, though that was not the plan.”

“I was attacked on the road, and Prince Theodred died in the attack.”

“I have heard it said that you lost some of your memories as well?”

“Yes, but they have returned to me in full, I believe,” Lothiriel said.

“You do seem much yourself. I would have brought you up from the Houses of Healing, but I was told that you offered medical aid at an hour when we needed it, and that you gave aid after the Battle of the Hornburg.”

“From who did you hear this?”

“The new King of Rohan speaks quite highly of you, which I imagine must be quite an accomplishment, as King Eomer seems an irritable sort of man.”

“He is not, really. The last few days have been hard for him,” Lothiriel explained, trying to convince herself on some level, “His sister is recovering, and I am sure that in time his temperament will improve.”

“The Horse Lords are not known for their cheerfulness,” Imrahil smiled.

“I did not find the people unpleasant.”

“Were you well-treated?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Ah,” Imrahil smoothed his hand over her hair, “I am certain they did their best, but the Rohirrim do not live in the luxury that you are by right accustomed, but I am glad of your safety,” her father smoothed his hand over her waving hair, “You should dress, and you will be dressed well for evening meal. The King has asked us to come and it is imperative that you be presentable.”

“What King?” Lothiriel asked.

“Aragorn will be crowned king of Gondor by May, I should think. He has assured me that we will keep our title and our birthright,” Imrahil said, nodding, “But we will need to ensure that we keep his favor until I have it in writing.”

“Lord Aragorn is a man of his word, father.”

“That he may be, but power can change the nature of a man, and you never know how that change may come.”

Lothiriel made no answer but she knew that her father’s words were wise, even if she did not know that she could agree.

“He is also, unmarried,” Imrahil went on, “and perhaps we might use that to our advantage.”

Lothiriel stared at her father, shocked. She could still smell the blood on her hands, and the bodies on the battlefield and her father was plotting ways to get her married.

“What will you do today?” Imrahil stood, making it clear she would not be allowed to go back to sleep.

“I will go visit cousin Faramir and see how he is healing.”

“Are you certain? Are there not some more pleasant visits you would rather pay?”

She looked at him, “He is my cousin, father.”

0x0x0

“Ah, you are up and about already?” Lothiriel smiled, at Faramir, as he leaned against a wall.

“I can no longer stand to lay and sit about,” Faramir smiled, reaching his arms out to her.

Lothiriel gave her cousin a gentle hug, not wanting to risk hurting him further. “How are you faring? You look well. Is that dress new?”

“No,” Lothiriel smiled, turning around as if she was modeling the dress, “this is old.”

“Lovely though.”

“Your uncle wants me to try to find a marriage,” Lothiriel teased, sitting on the steps, and setting a basket down.

“Already?” Faramir smiled sitting slowly, “You cannot see suitors yet.”

“No, but that would not stop my father from showing off his daughter in hopes of catching a big fish,” she took some bread and cheese from her basket.

“That is a lot of food.”

“I am going to give some to Lady Eowyn. I know the food here is far from the best,” Lothiriel smiled.

“The Rohirric Princess?” Faramir asked, glancing at a window, “Is she your friend?”

“Yes,” Lothiriel looked at her romantically minded cousin, and smiled, “She is wonderfully kind, brave and beautiful besides.”

“Oh, and her brother?” Faramir smirked at her, “He seems handsome enough, perhaps your father would like him for you.”

Lothiriel rolled her eyes, “Oh, hush.”

“I have said nothing untrue. He seems kindly enough and comes to visit her regularly. Though I admit, that I should think to fear him.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes I read to Lady Eowyn, as she sits by the window, and her brother gave me such a look,” Faramir pressed his hand over his heart, “Though had I a sister, I would likely cast that same look on any foolish young man that meant to be near her.”

Lothiriel chuckled, “I suppose that is true enough.”

“You know King Eomer well?”

“A little,” she said.

Faramir smiled, “Oh dear, my little cousin is infatuated.”

“No, I am not.”

“Tell me about your love,” Faramir pressed his hand over his heart, “Have there been sonnets and long walks under the stars?”

“You are a fool, and I will not be spoken down to in such a way as this,” Lothiriel smiled, trying not to laugh, “Eomer is a good man, but his temper is a cruel thing.”

“And yours is not?” Faramir tilted his head, “I remember a young princess throwing a book at me once.”

“I had nothing to throw at him,” Lothiriel said, “And he was in a state of anguish that I think nothing else would be appropriate.”

“Ah,” he raised a hand in greeting to Eowyn as her head appeared in the window. His smile was broad across her face.

“Hello,” Lothiriel waved, picking a small loaf of bread from her basket, an apple and some cheese, wrapped in a napkin and went over to the door to Eowyn’s room as her friend opened the door, “I brought some food.”

“You are a gift,” Eowyn smiled, “you know that Lord?”

“He is my cousin, Faramir,” Lothiriel smiled, watching Eowyn opened the bundle, “Would you like to come sit with us?”

“Next time, I think. I am tired still,” Eowyn smoothed her hand over her hair.

“You look lovely,” Lothiriel smiled, noting the nervousness. “I will let you rest, but may I come back to visit with you later?”

“Of course,” Eowyn smiled, and the princesses embraced firmly.

“Faramir thinks you are beautiful,” Lothiriel whispered by her friend’s ear, giggling.

“Did he say that?” Eowyn asked, surprised.

Lothiriel quirked a brow at her friend, rather than giving an answer out right before she turned and left for home, stopping to give Faramir another hug before she left to return to her monotonous life.

“Ah, look, the new King of Rohan,” Faramir said, looking over her shoulder, raising a brow at Lothiriel.

Lothiriel looked back over her shoulder at Eomer and was somewhat startled to see him. He was clean and well dressed, but he looked tired, and there was something else on his face as he looked at her. Some hurt was cut into his eyes that she did not understand outright. Why should he be hurt? She had done nothing to him and said nothing that would elicit such a response. She turned back to Faramir and gave his arm a squeeze, “I should get back.”

“Of course,” Faramir kissed her cheek in a brotherly moment of affection before she turned to leave, touching her arm, “Perhaps you should speak with your King? Perhaps he is unaware of the insult he has given?”

She gave him a look, “Have you met me? And besides my father has inferred that I am not to cause any public rows at present.”

“What a shame,” Faramir smiled as she left him to his recuperation, sitting back on the stairs, and watching his tiny cousin trying to contain her irritation.

“Your highness,” King Eomer said as she approached, his head bowed to her.

She curtsied in reply, not meeting his eye and walked on away from him, still annoyed by what his actions days earlier. She wanted to forgive him, but the pain in her was still too fresh.

“May I walk with you?” Eomer asked, “I was coming to visit my sister.”

“Far be it for me to tell you what you may or may not do, your majesty,” she replied in a chilled tone, her jaw set.

“Are you cross with me?” he asked, confused.

She walked on.

“Lothiriel,” he reached out for her arm before remembering that they were not in Rohan, his hand falling by his side, “who is that man?”

The look she gave him was icy, “I am only following your advice, your majesty.”

He looked at her, confused, “Perhaps now is not the time then, perhaps you are in an ill temper.”

“Perhaps so,” she had not stopped in her steps, and he fell from her side.

Eomer bowed, “Be well, Your Highness,” he said in a low voice, his eyes following her form as she disappeared down the walk.


	13. Chapter 13

Anthel had been Lothiriel’s handmaid for the last three years, but Lothiriel wondered if the two women had ever been friendly.

Anthel was dainty and quiet as she laced Lothiriel into her stays, “I am glad that you are returned safely, your highness.”

“Thank you,” Lothiriel said, not sure what else she could say, “the People of Rohan were very kind and offered me safe keeping.”

The Handmaid sniffed dismissively, trying the stays closed.

“What?” Lothiriel asked.

“You might do well not to speak of their hospitality openly as there might be some unspoken inference of impropriety,” Anthel said in a low voice.

“There was no impropriety,” Lothiriel said, looking back at her, irritated in her maid’s impertinence.

“I should not speak, your highness.”

“No, but you already have,” Lothiriel replied, staring at the wan face in the mirror as Anthel laced up the back of her dress, “So speak on.”

“The King of Rohan has asked after you, and you know that the people of Rohan are…”

“Are?”

“They are so uncivilized in their ways. Any hint of improper attention, whether true or not may damage your reputation,” Anthel said as if she had no greater concern that Lothiriel’s happiness, but the princess had the impression that the concern was more for her position as handmaid to a decent and highborn lady.

Lothiriel kept her features a blank mask, “Lord Eomer has been nothing but appropriate. And having lived among the Rohirrim, I can assert that many of our assumptions about them are unfounded. They are out closest allies, and I do not think that I should like to hear them defamed as brutes and savages.”

“Princess…”

Lothiriel raised a brow at Anthel in the glass mirror, silencing her maid with the look. She found that she rather liked the power of silencing people without a word. Lothiriel rubbed perfumed lotion on the skin of her hands.

There of course had been impropriety, but she had been more to blame than King Eomer. She had let herself push closer and closer to the infuriating man. No, he was not infuriated, rather he was a flirt. Even when he seemed oft in an irritable mood, there was a teasing current under his words. She had almost thrown her reputation on the fire of her own need to be near him, and comfort. She still wanted to see him, even though she had no real desire to speak to him.

She found her reflection strange even if she knew it was her face. The silk dress was lovely she would have to be careful not to wrinkle the fabric. Her head felt heavy from the way her hair was styled and pinned. She was nervous about shifting her head and moving the entire coifed confection.

She had to walk without moving her upper body much at all, her stays made that easier, and they made her stand straighter, even if she felt a little bit like a sausage.

Her father waited outside of the Great Hall to escort her in. He looked her dress over, approvingly, before he noted a few loose tendrils of hair about her brow and he tutted, smoothing the hairs back before he spoke, “You look beautiful.” Imrahil smiled at her before kissing her cheek and offered her his arm to escort her in. The assembly was meager but well-dressed.

Her father and she were announced. She wondered how Lord Aragorn was handling the sudden changes in his life. Lothiriel already felt a little uncomfortably at the attention after the few weeks she had been without having every eye turn on her, to assess her. Had she always been so nervous under the gaze of the gentry? The pair of Kings had stood talking until the Prince and Princess was be announced, and Imrahil led her by her fingertips to be formally introduced, in the eyes of society.

She curtsied regally, her eyes down, but her chin level as her hands held her skirts out to the sides. She did not want to look at Eomer, even as annoyed as she still was, she did not trust herself to look at him, and not show the attraction that she felt to him.

Prince Imrahil smiled, “May I present my daughter, Lothiriel, your majesties.”

“Of course,” Lord Aragorn smile, “Princess Lothiriel is a credit to you.”

“She is quite accomplished,” Prince Imrahil said, smiling.

“Yes, she has been such a help organizing supplies and medical aid after the battle,” Eomer said, “I have heard,” he looked to Lord Aragorn for confirmation.

“Indeed,” Lord Aragorn smiled a little, “Your council has been a great help to our forces.”

“I did only my duty to aid our people,” Lothiriel said, sencing her father’s unease at her side, even though they had not spoken of her working as a healer. It was not inappropriate that she should have organized supplies. That was something she had been trained to do in their own palace.

“I, for one, look forward to the return to normality,” Prince Imrahil smiled, “and safety of my family.”

Lothiriel’s jaw tightened a little, knowing that the high born were already secure that the common people. Her father was not wrong to feel this way, to want his children to be safe, but it still grated her a little. She wondered if normality would include her being put back in the box her family thought she should stay in.

“Will your highness find contentment in returning to your normal domestic duties?” Eomer asked.

“My lady daughter’s duties are more after a social nature, though through her afternoons with the other ladies of her household, she has become quite skilled at embroidery,” Prince Imrahil said, saving her from having to answer, “In Dol Amroth noble ladies enjoy more freedom from the responsibilities of state, and from the harsh realities of life.”

Lothiriel kept her eyes downcast. She was not required for anything besides standing there and looking pretty and submissive. She was likely not encouraged to say that she liked the purpose she had in healing, even if she had not liked the rush of dying bodies the last few days, but being trusted to work towards a goal, and she liked being needed to organize supply routes.

“That is a noble concept,” Eomer replied, “Though were I successful in keeping my lady sister from the field of battle we might still have the Witch King of Angmar to deal with.”

“You sister was the one the slay the Witch King?” Prince Imrahil asked, shocked.

Lothiriel chanced a glance up at Eomer, his eyes meeting hers for a moment.

“I was wrong to have doubted her,” Eomer went on. He looked so tired, and taking him in at long last, she was startled by the shadows under his eyes. She wondered if he had always been so weary, and that it was held in check by duty and responsibility and the purpose of fighting, and if the cracks were beginning to show in him.

This man had now gone through the loss of almost every member of his family, piece by piece until he and his sister remained. The realization of it dawned all at once. He had told Eowyn to remain because he feared the loss of her and his sanity with it, and Lothiriel had known that but now, she knew that behind his continuous façade of irritability was a man who lived in fear of loss and loneliness.

She looked away from him, trying to catch up with her father’s conversation with King Aragorn.

“How are you?” Eomer asked.

“Quite well, thank you,” she replied.

“I had wondered if you were feeling happy to be home,” Eomer said, hesitating a moment, “Have I offered some offense?”

“I have been volunteering my time,” she turned her eyes to look over his shoulder, annoyed that he might not think she was still hurt by his words.

“I had heard. You have been such a great help trough these trying times,” he shifted trying to catch her gaze, “Are you looking forward to a return to your life as it was before?”

“I look forward to peace, and the opportunity to rebuild out lands,” she replied looking to the door as her brothers were announced, “Would you please, excuse me?” She curtsied again, withdrawing as graceful as she could manage it, smiling as politely as she could.

Elphir, Erchirion, and Amrothos each smiled as they saw her sister.

“Ah, did you not think to slap good-woman Anthel’s hand away from your head?” Amrothos asked, “You must have snacks somewhere in your hair.”

Lothiriel rolled her eyes at him, “Father wanted me to present as well as possible.”

“Ah,” Elphir said, “Who does our loving lord father mean to throw you at now?” He shifted his grey eyes over the room, looking for their father, “Ah, one of the kings then.”

“Well she could do worse,” Amrothos said.

“Well, she might still be standing here,” Lothiriel prodded her brother’s arm.

“Oh, are you? We must have just gotten used to your not being here so we may have the comfort of talking about you, without the risk of you hearing us.”

“Perhaps father should rather be more concerned with finding you a wife, to keep an eye one you.”

“A governess might serve better,” Erchirion asked, “and might train you better.”

“Oh, no, a wife has different abilities to train a man,” Elphin said, reaching to take a glass of wine from a tray as a servant passed and handed it off to Lothiriel.

Amrothos made a face between his siblings, “You know, I have missed this continual bullying.”

“I am glad to hear that, since I very much doubt that we will run out of taunts for you,” Lothiriel smiled.

“We have not yet, by any means,” Elphir smiled.

“Perhaps Alphros will grow up to be funnier than his father,” Amrothos smirked, taking a drink of wine, “though Mithriel already is, and she is only five.”

“Is that the best retort you can manage? How disappointing,” Elphir patted Amrothos’ shoulder as if he was delivering some consolation.

“Let me at more wine, and I will put aside your disappointment!”

“In truth, you will be as disappointing in your attempt at wit, but you will only be louder,” Lothiriel smiled.

“Ah so you have regained most of your memories then,” Erchirion grinned.

Amrothos smirked at him, “I heard you have been staying in Edoras of all places.”

“I have,” Lothiriel nodded.

“And I am certain that our beautiful sister wove her charms over the whole court,” Erchirion smiled, “However did you manage to keep yourself civilized?”

“They are not uncivilized,” Lothiriel said, beginning to understand that she would have to constantly defend the Rohirric people, “They just live more simply than we do. I see no flaw in that.”

“Well then perhaps we should see if father would be convinced to make you a match there. You did always like horses,” Amrothos said, only partially teasing her, “if we could find someone to offer a suit.”

“Somehow I do not imagine finding a lord to offer you a court will prove difficult,” Elphir said in a low voice, cutting his eyes over Lothiriel’s shoulder at their father. Lothiriel did not follow his gaze.

0x0x0

Eomer King had excused himself as soon as he had finished eating, claiming weariness as his excuse. Lothiriel had barely even looked at him and he felt uncomfortable in the large room, with the haughty people. Lothiriel was a princess of Dol Amroth, and she belonged here. She fit in amongst her peers. This was where she ought to live her life, and perhaps she had simply remembered that once she was back in the south and lacked the courage to simply tell him so, even as that seemed unlikely.

Rather than going back to his rooms, he went to visit his sister, needing to feel for a moment as if things were normal again. Being in this strange city away from everything he had ever knew, and the one woman that might have made this somewhat bearable was refusing to speak to him.

Eowyn was sitting in the open courtyard of the Houses of Healing with a man, eating their suppers with an easy sort of comfort. The man had reddish blonde hair and in a brief moment, Eomer knew he was the man that he had seen Lothiriel embraced earlier that day.

“Oh, hello, Eomer,” Eowyn waved her hand when she saw him, turning back to the man with her, “Lord Faramir, this is my brother.”

Lord Faramir had kind grey eyes and he stood slowly, “Your majesty, an honor to meet you.”

“Lord Faramir is Princess Lothiriel’s cousin,” Eowyn explained.

Eomer nodded, “I am sorry to hear of your losses, my lord.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Lord Faramir smiled sadly, “And I am sorry of our own.”

“Are they banqueting at the citadel?” Eowyn asked, eying his tunic.

“Yes, I do not envy King Aragorn the pit of vipers he seems to have taken on,” Eomer sat on a bench next to them. He remembered too late that Faramir was by birth a member of the court, but he did not seem offended.

“So you have met my uncle then?” Lord Faramir laughed.

“I am sorry if I have spoken out of turn,” Eomer said, “I am unused to having to guard my words.”

“Imrahil can be hard to get to know. He likes to think that he is an astute mind and likes to say that he must take time to judge a man, but give him perhaps a week, and he will think you the best of friends.”

“I think he might be too occupied parading his daughter around to find her a husband,” Eomer said, trying not to sulk.

“Well I doubt she will be able to officially have suitors call on her until the War is officially over. It is considered to be in poor taste,” Lord Faramir said, taking note of Eomer’s foul mood, “Though you could still call on her socially.”

Eomer shot a look at his sister who had turned her eyes carefully away from him, and out over the night sky. How much had his little sister divulged to this man?

“I have heard that Your Majesty and Lady Eowyn took care of Lothiriel in when she did not know who she was or where to go,” Lord Faramir offered, “And I should thank you for bringing her back.”

“She rode unaccompanied to return here, as far as I am aware,” Eomer responded. Was that what Lothiriel was irritated with him? Did she not think that he had sent word back? But no, he hadn’t… Someone had.

“That is not what I mean. She seems to be more herself than she has in years. When she returned from finishing school it seemed as if they had snuffed out the fire in her somehow, which was no mean feat. Her childhood was not as easy as you might assume.” Lord Faramir paused, “her father loves her dearly, but I am not sure that he was ever really ready to have her by such a free spirit, or at least not publicly. A lady is more of a reflection on her family far more than her brothers might be.”

“I have heard little of the treatment of women here that does not make it sound like a form of bondage,” Eowyn said, smirking a little.

“Do your countrymen treat their daughters so much better?” Lord Faramir asked.

“We may not be perfect, but we are at least not treated like chattel,” Eowyn said.

Lord Faramir smiled, “True enough, I suppose. Perhaps you should take Lothiriel away from here while you still can,” Faramir said casting a look between the royal siblings.

“I doubt she would want to leave,” Eomer said, “She seems quite contented in this society.”

Lord Faramir chewed his lip a moment, looking away as if debating something before he spoke, “Perhaps she is just irritated about something. If you apologize, the storm will pass.”

“Apologize for what? I have not spoken to her since we came to the city,” Eomer said, thinking a long moment, “I do not think….”

“She has been to visit me,” Eowyn said, “A few times when she was volunteering, and again today, she brought me some food from the kitchen.”

“I saw her leaving,” Eomer looked at Lord Faramir, remembering that he had wanted to punch the Gondorian Lord in his soft face when he had seen him pressing a kiss to Lothiriel’s cheek, but it was simply the kiss of a beloved brother figure. The realization was starting to form in his mind,

“Perhaps I saw Lothiriel after the battle, but I do not think I was myself.”

“Well go and tell her that you are an idiotic oaf,” Eowyn said, “I am certain she would agree and forgive whatever stupid behavior you are certainly guilty of.”

“I doubt I was so terrible as that,” Eomer said, smirking at his sister, even as he was beginning to think that perhaps in his temporary madness, he might have been unkind.

“Do you like my cousin?” Lord Faramir asked.

Eomer narrowed his eyes at the young lord, though he knew that he wanted to ask Lord Faramir a similar question about his intentions toward his sister.

“This is just how Lothiriel is. She can hold a grudge better than almost anyone I know,” there was a faint shadow crossed over Lord Faramir’s eyes for a moment, leaving something unsaid before he cleared his throat, “She likes you. If you like her, and want to hear any kindness from her again, you should go and make amends, though I would be careful, as my dear cousin's fury is a thing to behold.”

Eowyn looked almost excited by these words, "She has held herself with comportment beyond sense."

"When she is so cross, she does not speak, it is out of a recognition that she wants to scream, but such things are not allowed to a lady of her status."

Eomer thought a moment, his pride taking a hint as he looked between his sister and Lord Faramir, and stood suddenly, realizing that he had interrupted them. “I should be getting back.”

Lord Faramir looked as if he was trying to think of a polite way to tell him that he was welcome stay, but Eowyn’s eyes were wide and urging him to get himself anywhere else, far away from her courting intentions at once.

0x0x0

Lothiriel smiled prettily and kept her mouth shut, save for demure comments and a few witty thoughts when the time called for it. She felt almost as if her tongue had been chewed to a nub. Had she always felt this way? Had she always felt as if she was just going through the motions? There was some nagging part of her that she had been discontent but trapped the assurance that her lot in life was the best that she could dare to hope for.

Now she was not sure. But of course, she would need to readjust her life here.

But she did not want to talk to him.

“It is not appropriate to wait outside of a lady’s chambers,” she said irritably, “I am not in any mood for your vexations at present.”

“I need to speak with you,” Eomer said.

“But I do not want to speak to you I do not have the energy to deal with you just now.”

“Then just listen,” Eomer said, his voice taking on an edge.

She glared at him, “If you are here to berate me again- “

“I am sorry,” he interrupted.

“What?”

“I was not myself when I…” he hesitated, “but that might not be an excuse.”

“So, you want my forgiveness?”

“I would beg for it, if you wish me to.”

It was tempting. She thought for a moment of telling him to get on his knees and beg her, but she decided against it, “You know Lady Eowyn would have followed, no matter what I said or did.”

“You could have tied her up,” Eomer said, blunt.

“She would have broken my arms, and you know it.”

“If I am honest, I barely remember what offense I have given you,” Eomer stared at her.

“And yet you still make apologies?”

“Yes, if it means that you will stop avoiding me so vengefully.”

“That must be difficult for someone as proud as you are.”

He tilted his head forward, his eyes flashing a little, “Yes.”

“I only say so because I wonder why you might do something so difficult.”

“Because you are dear to my heart, and it is right that I make amends.”

“I think it is because you fear loss,” Lothiriel said.

“Who doesn’t fear that?” Eomer asked, exasperated, yet still taking some small pleasure in that she was speaking to him.

“I think that you have suffered more loss than most people could bear,” she studied him, a hard light still in her eyes.

“And I can choose not to dwell on the losses hard though that might be,” Eomer said, “Perhaps I mean to focus instead on the future.”

“And what do you think the future holds?” Lothiriel asked, smiling a little.

The door beside them opened, and Anthel’s face peered out, “Your Highness should be abed.”

Eomer bowed his head, “Your Highness.” The back of his hand brushed hers for a moment as he passed her, and she fought back a smile.


	14. Chapter 14

They were going to face the Dark Lord’s forces at the Black Gate. It had been explained that this was of the utmost importance. She listened to Eomer as he walked beside her in the gardens always in sight of a chaperone, Lothiriel’s sister-in-law, Gadrien.

“Will this be the end of the war?” Lothiriel asked.

“If we succeed, yes,” Eomer looked down at his feet.

“But I do not understand how- “

“I cannot tell you anything more than I already have.”

“So, you keep secrets from me now?” she teased.

“The weight of Kinghood, I fear.”

“And you will return?” she asked.

“They have not managed to kill me yet, I do not see how this time should be any different.”

“I only speak out of concern for your kingdom, your majesty.”

“If I do not return, my lady sister would become Queen of the Mark.”

“Perhaps I should knock you from the wall there then,” she smiled, “for she might prove a better ruler than you.”

“Undoubtedly,” he replied, “It might be in the interest of my people.”

“But the trial for murder of a King would be the talk of the town,” Lothiriel shook her head, “My father would be quite annoyed.”

“I could preemptively pardon you,” Eomer looked at her, smiling a little.

“I am not sure there is a legal function for that.”

“I will have my lawyers look into it.”

She laughed, her hand raising to her mouth, “You would not.”

He wished she did not feel the need to hide her smile, “What is finishing school?”

“Is it where they polish young ladies up and teach them etiquette and dancing,” Lothiriel explained.

A strange look came over Eomer’s face.

“What?” she asked.

“Were you always close with your cousin, Faramir?”

“Yes,” she was confused, “He has been ever as a brother to me.”

“Closer than you were to his brother?”

She looked up at him, pausing, trying to read his face, and wondering if he was jealous in some way, or if his mind had gone back to the fact that she had been almost forced to marry Faramir’s brother.

“Lord Faramir said that you returned different from finishing school.”

“Your majesty has more pressing concerns, I am certain,” Lothiriel said, trying to find a way to get him to focus on what mattered. She turned from him looking out over the plains, taking a seat on the bench.

“Perhaps I am simply trying to find a distraction from those pressing matters.”

“Am I a distraction?”

“One that I welcome,” Eomer took a seat beside her, “I did not even think to be King. I never wanted to be king, and it is not yet anything more than a heavy duty. Consider then, that you are one of the few things that I might be able to have only for myself.”

She looked at him sideways, looking over his head at her sister-in-law just in sight, and out of hearing, before looking back at him.

“Perhaps you are the one thing in this strange land and in these strange times that has kept me grounded,” Eomer pressed on.

“We are all of us stronger than we think,” she supplied. She needed him to know that she considered him capable, even as she saw the doubt flash in his eyes.

“Melancholy is common in my family,” he said, simply.

“And you suffer from it?”

“I have in the past, but that madness that took me after the battle was the most intense.”

She wondered if he had spoken to anyone else of this before. Though she understood the feelings he described, she was not sure that her malaise had ever had such a firm grasp on her. She sat next to him, a respectful distance between them as she smoothed her skirts out.

“I do not know how you are so able to raise above the struggles of your mind, unless you are as strong as I said,” she teased him gently.

“Duty requires that I do so.”

Lothiriel glanced at her brother’s wife to be sure she wasn’t looking before putting her hand on his, “I understand a little better than most would think.”

He turned his hand to let the palms of their hands touch before he stroked his fingertips up against her palm a moment.

“I will offer you whatever help I may,” she smiled at him gently before removing her hand from his.

“Lord Faramir also told me that it might be seen as inappropriate for me to court you until we are the peace,” Eomer said.

“I may reject suitors, but my father has first say on any man that wishes to spend time with me with an eye to that end.”

“Then may I ask what your father thinks is happening now?”

“Hospitality,” Lothiriel smiled, “’How can I refuse to show the King of Rohan the gardens, my lord father? Oh, yes, he does not know our ways, but I will explain to him how strange this all seems.’”

“And your father believed you?”

“Of course,” she smiled, “I am his daughter and am a dutiful princess. Why should he doubt me?”

He smiled at her shaking his head a little.

“Now that is a nice sight,” she smiled back, “If you are not careful, I will expect more smiles that you may have to offer me.”

He looked away, “Perhaps I will have many smiles yet,” he said, rising slowly to resume their walk.

Lothiriel followed him, “Well you should be careful, you would not want to damage your reputation as a grump of epic proportions.”

“You are among the few that seem to find me so,” Eomer said as if she were mad for saying such a thing.

“No, I know you are actually almost funny.”

“Almost?” he asked, noting her smile, “then I must clearly thing to watch for when you laugh to combat your thesis.”

“Perhaps I only laugh to make you feel better.”

“I should hope not. You must never feel that you have to so deceive for my comfort,” he glanced at her.

“So, honesty is important to you? You would do better to court one of your own country-women.”

“You are not wrong, and yet I find myself unwilling to leave your company,” he tilted his head to look at her.

She chuckled a little, “Oh?”

“I can only speak honestly, corenu, and I wish you no displeasure,” he paused in his paces, “Though my sister has insisted that I tell you that I am an idiotic oaf.”

Lothiriel looked up at him, “Why?”

“She is annoyed that I did not include that in my apology,” Eomer said.

She looked over the contained greenery of the garden, a manicured space held in by stone walls.

“I still owe you a kiss for your survival,” she said in a low voice.

“I have not forgotten. But it seems you so constantly have eyes upon you,” Eomer demurred.

“Though it is right that I am so guarded, I wonder if I am being protected from myself,” she replied. She wanted to kiss him, and she wanted to fall into the safe warm embrace of his arms, but she was not allowed even that. Propriety kept her firmly bound in her frame. She had spoken of his doubt and the sadness that plagued him, she had wanted to smooth a hand over his hair and to make him feel less alone. There was some bond between them, and she knew he felt it, he had said so, and she wondered if he felt so strongly or more constantly that she did. The warm feeling that he seemed to inspire in her still came in waves, some stronger sense coming down to crash over her.

“I might hope to expect another kiss when I return. We shall have to find a way to exchange payment,” Eomer’s voice was light and teasing, and if he were anyone else she would have slapped him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this fic, but I have more story to write. I'll have a part two up, probably tomorrow. Thanks for all the support so far, and I hope you'll enjoy more chapters soon!


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